Louis looked at him steadily for a moment.  It seemed to me that, although I was unable to discern anything of the sort, some sign must have passed between them.  At any rate, without any protest or speech of any sort from Louis the commissionnaire saluted and stood back.

“But your friend, monsieur?” he asked.

“It will be arranged,” Louis answered, in a low tone.  “We shall speak to Monsieur Carvin.”

We were in a dark sort of entresol, and at that moment a further door was opened, and one caught the gleam of lights and the babel of voices.  A man came out of the room and walked rapidly toward us.  He was of middle height, and dressed in ordinary morning clothes, wearing a black tie with a diamond pin.  His lips were thick.  He had a slight tawny moustache, and a cast in one eye.  He held out both his hands to Louis.

“Dear Louis,” he exclaimed, “it is good to see you!”

Louis drew him to one side, and they talked for a few moments in a rapid undertone.  More than once the manager of the restaurant, for such I imagined him to be, glanced towards me, and I was fairly certain that I formed the subject of their conversation.  When it was finished Louis beckoned, and we all three turned towards the door together, Louis in the centre.

“This,” he said to me, “is Monsieur Carvin, the manager of the Cafe des Deux Epingles.  He has been explaining to me how difficult it is to find even a corner in his restaurant, but there will be a small table for us.”

Monsieur Carvin bowed.

“For any friend of Louis,” he said, “one would do much.  But indeed, monsieur, people seem to find my little restaurant interesting, and it is, alas, so very small.”

We entered the room almost as he spoke.  It was larger than I had expected to find it, and the style of its decorations and general appearance were absolutely different from the cafe below.  The coloring was a little sombre for a French restaurant, and the illuminations a little less vivid.  The walls, however, were panelled with what seemed to be a sort of dark mahogany, and on the ceiling was painted a great allegorical picture, the nature of which I could not at first surmise.  The guests, of whom the room was almost full, were all well-dressed and apparently of the smart world.  The tourist element was lacking.  There were a few men there in morning clothes, but these were dressed with the rigid exactness of the Frenchman, who often, from choice, affects this style of toilet.  From the first I felt that the place possessed an atmosphere.  I could not describe it, but, quite apart from Louis’ few words concerning it, I knew that it had a clientele of its own, and that within its four walls were gathered together people who were in some way different from the butterfly crowd who haunt the night cafes in Paris.  Monsieur Carvin himself led us to a small table against the wall, and not far inside the room.  The vestiaire relieved us of our coats and hats.  A suave maitre d’hotel bent over us with suggestions for supper, and an attendant sommelier waited by his side.  Monsieur Carvin waved them away.