He was suddenly stopped in his harangue by the entrance of a stranger in the coffee-room. He was a tall, thin man, wrapped in an over-cloak; he paced majestically across the room, and took a seat opposite the old man, who had suddenly become silent and was busily occupied reading the criminal bulletin. Over the edges of his paper the old man took a furtive glance at the stranger; their eyes met; a recognition followed, but as silent and as deep as with the criminal and the Masonic judge.
The old man rang the bell, and called for writing materials. He hastily scribbled a few words, closed, sealed the letter, then bade the waiter take it to his eldest son, who had retired to his apartments. He immediately took his hat and went out.
"Who is that old man?" asked the tall stranger, rising and advancing excitedly towards the waiter.
"That's Senor Pereira from Cadiz," retorted the waiter.
"Senor Pereira from Cadiz!" repeated the stranger. "No," he continued emphatically; "he is Senor Cassier from Paris."
"Cassier!" was muttered by the astounded debaters who had listened to the vituperative philippics of the Portuguese merchant.
"Cassier!" was echoed from the furthest end of the salon, where some quiet and peaceful citizens were sipping their coffee and rum apart from the stormy politics of the centre-table.
Whilst an animated conversation was carried on two young lads came running down-stairs and rushed into the street through the front door.
"Who are those young men?" asked again the stranger of the waiter.
"They are the sons of Senor Pereira," was the answer.