adiction at the very scene of his unseemly vagaries, I did not fail
to be punctual. As I entered the street, I espied the baron a few yards
before me, walking briskly towards the entrance of the sacred building.
I followed him. He hurried into the church, and took his accustomed
place. I kept close upon him; and, with a fluttering heart, seated
myself at his side. My cheek burned with nervous agitation, but I did
not look towards my adversary. His eye, however, was upon me. I felt it,
and was sensible of his steady, long, and, as it seemed, passionless
gaze. He did not move, or betray any symptom of surprise. As on the
previous occasions, he proceeded solemnly to prayer; and when the
ceremony was completed, he, as usual, offered up his alms. As the
service drew to its close, my own anxiety became intense, and my
situation almost insupportable. He rose--I did the same;--he walked
leisurely away--I, giddy with excitement reeled after him. I was not to
be shaken from my purpose, and I accosted him on the church's threshold.

"Baron!" I exclaimed.

"Mr Walpole!" he replied, perfectly unmoved.

"I am surprised to see you here, sir."

"You are NOT," answered the baron, still most placidly; "you came
expressly to meet me; you have been here twice before. Why do you desire
to hide that fact? Can a Christian, Mr Walpole, play the hypocrite as
well as other men?"

"I cannot understand you," I said, bewildered by his imperturbable
coolness; "you laugh at religion--you mock me for respecting it, and yet
you come here for prayer. You do not believe in God, and you assist
devoutly at mass!"

"It is a lovely morning, Mr Walpole--we have half an hour to spare--give
me your arm!"

Perfectly puzzled and confounded by the collected manner of the baron, I
placed my arm mechanically in his, and suffered him to conduct me
whethersoever he would. We walked in silence for some distance, passed
into the meanest quarter of the city, and reached a miserable and
squalid street. The baron pointed to the most wretched house in the
lane, and bade me direct my eye especially to its sixth story.

"Mark it well," said he, "you see a window there to which a line is
fixed with recently washed linen?"

"I do," I answered.

"In the room--the small close hole to which that window hardly brings
air and light, I passed months of my life. The mass at which you have
three times watched me, is connected with it, and with occurrences that
had their ri