Such was the spot that soon became known as "Frowenfeld's Corner." The notice "A Louer" directed him to inquire at numero--rue Conde.

Here he was ushered through the wicket of a _porte cochere_ into a broad, paved corridor, and up a stair into a large, cool room, and into the presence of a man who seemed, in some respects, the most remarkable figure he had yet seen in this little city of strange people.

A strong, clear, olive complexion; features that were faultless (unless a woman-like delicacy, that was yet not effeminate, was a fault); hair _en queue_, the handsomer for its premature streakings of gray; a tall, well knit form, attired in cloth, linen and leather of the utmost fineness; manners Castilian, with a gravity almost oriental,--made him one of those rare masculine figures which, on the public promenade, men look back at and ladies inquire about.
Now, who might _this_ be?
The rent poster had given no name.

Even the incurious Frowenfeld would fain guess a little.

For a man to be just of this sort, it seemed plain that he must live in an isolated ease upon the unceasing droppings of coupons, rents, and like receivables.