“There need not, even so, be a dearth of wit. Figaro is as heavy to-day as a government leader in the Moniteur.”

He shrugged his shoulders and moved slightly round, apparently to get a better light upon what he was reading, but in reality to turn still more away from me.  The gesture of avoidance was so marked, that with the best will in the world, it would have been impossible for me to address him again.  I therefore relapsed into silence.

Presently I saw a sudden change flash over him.

Now, in turning away from myself, he had faced round towards a narrow looking-glass panel which reflected part of the opposite side of the room; and chancing, I suppose, to lift his eyes from the paper, he had seen something that arrested his attention.  His head was still bent; but I could see that his eyes were riveted upon the mirror.  There was alertness in the tightening of his hand before his mouth—­in the suspension of his breathing.

Then he rose abruptly, brushed past me as if I were not there, and crossed to where Mueller, sketch-book in hand, was in the very act of taking his portrait.

I jumped up, almost involuntarily, and followed him.  Mueller, with an unsuccessful effort to conceal his confusion, thrust the book into his pocket.

“Monsieur,” said the stranger, in a low, resolute voice, “I protest against what you have been doing.  You have no right to take my likeness without my permission.”

“Pardon, Monsieur, I—­I beg to assure you—­” stammered Mueller.

“That you intended no offence?  I am willing to suppose so.  Give me up the sketch, and I am content.”

“Give up the sketch!” echoed Mueller.

“Precisely, Monsieur.”

“Nay—­but if, as an artist, I have observed that which leads me to desire a—­a memorandum—­let us say of the pose and contour of a certain head,” replied Mueller, recovering his self-possession, “it is not likely that I shall be disposed to part from my memorandum.”

“How, Monsieur! you refuse?”

“I am infinitely sorry, but—­”

“But you refuse?”

“I certainly cannot comply with Monsieur’s request.”

The stranger, for all his bronzing, grew pale with rage.

“Do not compel me, Monsieur, to say what I must think of your conduct, if you persist in this determination,” he said fiercely.

Mueller smiled, but made no reply.

“You absolutely refuse to yield up the sketch?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then, Monsieur, c’est une infamie—­et vous etes un lache!”

But the last word had scarcely hissed past his lips before Mueller dashed his coffee dregs full in the stranger’s face.

In one second, the table was upset—­blows were exchanged—­Mueller, pinned against the wall with his adversary’s hands upon his throat, was striking out with the desperation of a man whose strength is overmatched—­and the whole room was in a tumult.