Most of the students had ere this dropped off by twos and threes, and were gone to their day’s work, or pleasure—­to return again in equal force about five in the afternoon.  Of those that remained, some five or six came up when the police were gone, and began chatting about the robbery.  When they learned that Flandrin had desired to have a sketch of the man’s head; when Mueller described his features, and I his obstinate reserve and semi-military air, their excitement knew no bounds.  Each had immediately his own conjecture to offer.  He was a political spy, and therefore fearful lest his portrait should be recognised.  He was a conspirator of the Fieschi school.  He was Mazzini in person.

In the midst of the discussion, a sudden recollection flashed upon me.

“A clue! a clue!” I shouted triumphantly.  “He left his coat and black bag hanging up in the corner!”

Followed by the others, I ran to the spot where I had been sitting before the affray began.  But my exultation was shortlived.  Coat and bag, like their owner, had disappeared.

Mueller thrust his hands into his pockets, shook his head, and whistled dismally.

“I shall never see my sketch-book again, parbleu!” said he.  “The man who could not only take it out of my breast-pocket, but also in the very teeth of the police, secure his property and escape unseen, is a master of his profession.  Our friends in the cocked hats have no chance against him.”

“And Flandrin, who is expecting the sketch,” said I; “what of him?”

Mueller shrugged his shoulders.

“Next to being beaten,” growled he, “there’s nothing I hate like confessing it.  However, it has to be done—­so the sooner the better.  Would you like to come with me?  You’ll see his studio.”

I was only too glad to accompany him; for to me, as to most of us, there was ever a nameless charm in the picturesque litter of an artist’s studio.  Mueller’s own studio, however, was as yet the only one I had seen.  He laughed when I said this.

“If your only notion of a studio is derived from that specimen,” said he, “you will he agreeably surprised by the contrast.  He calls his place a ‘den,’ but that’s a metaphor.  Mine is a howling wilderness.”

Arriving presently at a large house at the bottom of a courtyard in the Rue Vaugirard, he knocked at a small side-door bearing a tiny brass plate not much larger than a visiting-card, on which was engraved—­“Monsieur Flandrin.”

The door opened by some invisible means from within, and we entered a passage dimly lighted by a painted glass door at the farther end.  My companion led the way down this passage, through the door, and into a small garden containing some three or four old trees, a rustic seat, a sun-dial on an antique-looking fragment of a broken column, and a little weed-grown pond about the size of an ordinary drawing-room table, surrounded by artificial rock-work.