“Can I have a description of him?” inquired the agent.
“Yes. He is a man past middle age, military bearing, heavy mustache, ribbons in his buttonhole.”
“Yes, I see: one of your regular fighting fellows.”
“Very well. Go then. I shall not retire before your return. Ah, I forgot; find out what they thought to-night on the ‘street’ about the Mutual Credit affair, and what they said of the arrest of one Saint Pavin, editor of ‘The Financial Pilot,’ and of a banker named Jottras.”
“Can I take a carriage?”
“Do so.”
The agent started; and he was not fairly out of the house, when the commissary, opening a door which gave into a small study, called, “Felix!”
It was his secretary, a man of about thirty, blonde, with a gentle and timid countenance, having, with his long coat, somewhat the appearance of a theological student. He appeared immediately.
“You call me, sir?”
“My dear Felix,” replied the commissary, “I have seen you, sometimes, imitate very nicely all sorts of hand-writings.”