“Does he know that I am involved with someone?” “Of course he knows. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. Rumors had it he had been a looker in his youth, all long hair and chiseled muscles, but those days were long gone.
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