“Do I address Monsieur Vernon, the artist?” he asked in good English, with a French accent.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Formerly Monsieur John Clare?”

“I once bore that name,” said Jack, with a start of surprise; he was ill-pleased to hear it after so many years.

The visitor produced a card bearing the name of M. Felix Marchand, Parc Monceaux, Paris.

“I do not recall you,” said Jack.  “Will you take a seat.”

“We have not met until now,” said M. Marchand, “but I have the honor to be familiar with your work, and to possess some of it.  Pictures are to me a delight—­I confess myself a humble patron of art—­and a few years ago I purchased several water-color sketches signed by your name.  They appealed to me especially because they were bits of Paris—­one looking down the river from the bridge of the Carrousel, and the other a night impression of Montmartre.”

“I remember them vaguely,” said Jack.  “They, with others, were sold for me by a dealer named Cambon—­”

“Monsieur is right.  It was from Jacques Cambon, of the Quai Voltaire, I obtained the sketches.  They pleased me much, and I went again to seek more—­that was eighteen months later, when I returned to Paris after a long absence.  Imagine my disappointment to learn that Jacques Cambon had no further knowledge of Monsieur Clare, and no more of his sketches to sell.”

“No; I had come to London by that time—­or was in Italy,” said Jack.  “But perhaps—­pardon me—­you would prefer to carry on our conversation in French.”

“Monsieur is thoughtful,” replied M. Marchand.  “He will understand that I desire, while in England, to improve as much as possible my knowledge of the language.”

“Quite so,” assented Jack.  “You speak it already like a native born,” he added to himself.

“The years passed on,” resumed the Frenchman, “but I did not forget the author of my little sketches.  A few weeks ago I resolved to cross the Channel and pay a visit to London, which I last saw in 1891.  I had but lately returned from a long trip to Algeria and Morocco, and I was told that the English spring was mild; in Paris I found the weather too cold for my chest complaint.  So I said to myself, ’I will make endeavor to find the artist, John Clare.’  But how?  I had an idea.  I went to the school of the great Julian, and there my inquiries met with success.  ‘Monsieur Clare,’ one of the instructors told me, ’is now a prosperous painter of London, by the name of Vernon.’  They gave me the address of a magazine in your Rue Paternoster, and at that place I was this morning informed where to find you.  I trust that my visit is not an intrusion.”

“Oh, not at all,” said Jack.  “Who at Julian’s can have known so much about me?” he thought.

“I have spoken with freedom—­perhaps too much,” M. Marchand went on.  “But I desired to explain clearly.  I have come on business, monsieur, hoping that I may be privileged to purchase one or two pictures to take back with me to Paris.”