"True,—who is this person?"
"His name is—" and Maxwell hesitated; then a severe fit of coughing apparently prevented his uttering the name—"his name is Antoine De Guy."
"Do I know him?"
"You do, I think,—a kind of street lawyer,—you must have met him at the Exchange."
"What looking man is he?"
"About fifty years of age," replied Maxwell, more thoughtful than the simple description of a person would seem to require,—"rather corpulent, black hair and whiskers, intermixed with gray,—dresses old-fashioned, and always looks rusty."
"I do not remember him,—De Guy—De Guy," said Jaspar, musing; "no, I do not know him. Are you confident he can be trusted?"
"Perfectly confident. I pledge my own safety on his fidelity," replied Maxwell, not a little satisfied at gaining his point,—for he had a point, and a strong one, as the reader may yet have occasion to know.
"Very good,—I will inquire about him."
"And expose us both!" replied Maxwell, in much alarm.