“You forget, Mr. Lorrequer, it is a secret from whom the flowers came; at least mamma hoped to place them in your vases without you knowing.  So, pray, don’t speak of it—­and I’m sure Mr. O’Leary will not tell.”

If Mr. O’Leary heard one word of this artful speech, I know not, but he certainly paid no attention to it, nor the speaker, who left the room without his appearing aware of it.

“Now that she is gone—­for which heaven be praised,” said I to myself; “let me see what this fellow can mean.”

As I turned from the door, I could scarcely avoid laughing aloud at the figure before me.  He stood opposite a large mirror, his hat on one side of his head, one arm in his breast, and the other extended, leaning upon his stick; a look of as much ferocity as such features could accomplish had been assumed, and his whole attitude was a kind of caricature of a melo-dramatic hero in a German drama.

“Why, O’Leary, what is all this?”

“Hush, hush,” said he, in a terrified whisper—­“never mention that name again, till we are over the frontier.”

“But, man, explain—­what do you mean?”

“Can’t you guess,” said he drily.

“Impossible; unless the affair at the saloon has induced you to take this disguise, I cannot conceive the reason.”

“Nothing farther from it, my dear friend; much worse than that.”

“Out with it, then, at once.”

“She’s come—­she’s here—­in this very house—­No. 29, above the entre sol.”

“Who is here, in No. 29, above the entre sol?”

“Who, but Mrs. O’Leary herself.  I was near saying bad luck to her.”

“And does she know you are here?”

“That is what I can’t exactly say,” said he, “but she has had the Livre des Voyageurs brought up to her room, and has been making rather unpleasant inquiries for the proprietor of certain hieroglyphics beginning with O, which have given me great alarm—­the more, as all the waiters have been sent for in turn, and subjected to long examination by her.  So I have lost no time, but, under the auspices of your friend Trevanion, have become the fascinating figure you find me, and am now Compte O’Lieuki, a Pole of noble family, banished by the Russian government, with a father in Siberia, and all that; and I hope, by the end of the week, to be able to cheat at ecarte, and deceive the very police itself.”

The idea of O’Leary’s assuming such a metamorphosis was too absurd not to throw me into a hearty fit of laughing, in which the worthy emigre indulged also.

“But why not leave this at once,” said I, “if you are so much in dread of a recognition?”

“You forget the trial,” added O’Leary, “I must be here on the 18th or all my bail is forfeited.”

“True—­I had forgot that.  Well, now, your plans?”—­