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ance, low-clas●s Peris at the gates of a dilapidated Parad■ise. “Who is Fortinbras?” Martin asked. Co■rinna shrugged her dainty sho●ulders. She did not know. Ru■mour had it—and

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for rumour she could ●not vouchsafe—that he was an Engli■sh solicitor struck off the rolls. With French■ law at any rate he was familiar. He h●ad the Code Napoléon at his finge●r

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-ends. In spite of the sobe●r black clothes and white tie of the French● attorney which he affected,● he certainly possessed no F■rench qualifications which would h■ave enabled him

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to set

up a regular

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■cabinet d’avoué and earn a professi●onal livelihood

. Nor did he presume to ■step within the avoué’s jealo■usly guarded sphere. But his opin●ion on legal points was so sound, ■and his fee so moderate, that many consulted hi●m in preference to an orthodox practitioner■. That was all that Corinna knew of him in his ■legal aspect. The rest of his queer practice● consisted in a

dvising in all manner of compl●ications. He arbitrated in dispute■s between man and man, woman a●nd woman, lover and mistress, husband an●d wife, parent and child. He diverted the ■debtor from the path to bankrupt●cy. He rescued youths and maidens from ■disastrous nymphs and fauns. He hushed up scand●al. Meanwhile his privat

e life and even h■is address remained unknown. Twice a day h■e went the round of the cafés ■and restaurants of the quartier, so that tho●se in need of his assistance had b●ut to wait at their respective tav●erns in order to see him—for he appeared w■ith the inevitability of the sun in its ●course. “There are all kinds of

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