ches were
twisted into waxed points, and there was a good deal of gray in his
beard, which was parted German fashion in the middle, and carefully
brushed to each side. His top hat was unmistakably French, with a flat
rim, and his boots were of patent leather. As he opened his long caped
cloak, the collar of which he kept turned up, it was seen that he was in
evening dress.

"Do I address Monsieur Vernon, the artist?" he asked in good English,
with a French accent.

"Yes, that's right."

"Formerly Monsieur John Clare?"

"I once bore that name," said Jack, with a start of surprise; he was
ill-pleased to hear it after so many years.

The visitor produced a card bearing the name of M. Felix Marchand, Parc
Monceaux, Paris.

"I do not recall you," said Jack. "Will you take a seat."

"We have not met until now," said M. Marchand, "but I have the honor to
be familiar with your work, and to possess some of it. Pictures are to
me a delight--I confess myself a humble patron of art--and a few years
ago I purchased several water-color sketches signed by your name. They
appealed to me especially because they were bits of Paris--one looking
down the river from the bridge of the Carrousel, and the other a night
impression of Montmartre."

"I remember them vaguely," said Jack. "They, with others, were sold for
me by a dealer named Cambon--"

"Monsieur is right. It was from Jacques Cambon, of the Quai Voltaire,
I obtained the sketches. They pleased me much, and I went again to seek
more--that was eighteen months later, when I returned to Paris after a
long absence. Imagine my disappointment to learn that Jacques Cambon
had no further knowledge of Monsieur Clare, and no more of his sketches
to sell."

"No; I had come to London by that time--or was in Italy," said Jack.
"But perhaps--pardon me--you would prefer to carry on our conversation
in French."

"Monsieur is thoughtful," replied M. Marchand. "He will understand that
I desire, while in England, to improve as much as possible my knowledge
of the language."

"Quite so," assented Jack. "You speak it already like a native born," he
added to himself.

"The years passed on," resumed the Frenchman, "but I did not forget the
author of my little sketches. A few weeks ago I resolved to cross the
Channel and pay a visit to London, which I last saw in 1891. I had but
lately returned from a long trip to Algeria and Morocco, and I was told
that the English spring was mild; in Pa