f as was that glance, and all in the shade as he stood, I recognised
him instantly.

It was the mysterious stranger of the Cafe Procope.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MY AUNT'S FLOWER GARDEN.

Having despatched the venerable Coligny much to her own satisfaction and
apparently to the satisfaction of her hearers, Mdlle. Honoria returned
to private life; Messieurs Philomene and Dorinet removed the footlights;
the audience once more dispersed itself about the room; and Madame
Marotte welcomed the new-comer as Monsieur Lenoir.

"_Monsieur est bien aimable_," she said, nodding and smiling, and, with
tremulous hands, smoothing down the front of her black silk gown. "I had
told these young ladies that we hoped for the honor of Monsieur's
society. Will Monsieur permit me to introduce him?"

"With pleasure, Madame Marotte."

And M. Lenoir--white cravatted, white kid-gloved, hat in hand, perfectly
well-dressed in full evening black, and wearing a small orange-colored
rosette at his button-hole--bowed, glanced round the room, and, though
his eyes undoubtedly took in both Mueller and myself, looked as if he had
never seen either of us in his life.

I< saw Mueller start, and the color fly into his face.

"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, "it is--it must be ... look at him,
Arbuthnot! If that isn't the man who stole my sketch-book, I'll eat
my head!"

"It _is_ the man," I replied. "I recognised him ten minutes ago, when he
first came in."

"You are certain?"

"Quite certain."

"And yet--there is something different!"

There _was_ something different; but, at the same time, much that was
identical. There was the same strange, inscrutable look, the same
bronzed complexion, the same military bearing. M. Lenoir, it was true,
was well, and even elegantly dressed; whereas, the stranger of the Cafe
Procope bore all the outward stigmata of penury; but that was not all.
There was yet "something different." The one looked like a man who had
done, or suffered, a wrong in his time; who had an old quarrel with the
world; and who only sought to hide himself, his poverty, and his bitter
pride from the observation of his fellow men. The other stood before us
dignified, _decore_, self-possessed, a man not only of the world, but
apparently no stranger to that small section of it called "the great
world." In a word, the man of the Cafe, sunken, sullen, threadbare as he
was, would have been almost less out of his proper place in Madame
Marotte's s