Come in, and if you will give me your card I will carry it to her myself." Newman had been accompanied on his present errand by a slight sentiment, I will not say of defiance--a readiness for aggression or defense, as they might prove needful--but of reflection, good-humored suspicion.

He took from his pocket, while he stood on the portico, a card upon which, under his name, he had written the words "San Francisco," and while he presented it he looked warily at his interlocutor.

His glance was singularly reassuring; he liked the young man's face; it strongly resembled that of Madame de Cintre.

He was evidently her brother.

The young man, on his side, had made a rapid inspection of Newman's person.
He had taken the card and was about to enter the house with it when another figure appeared on the threshold--an older man, of a fine presence, wearing evening dress.