'That is a compatriot of yours. His name is Oliver Haddo.'

'Art-student?' inquired Arthur, with the scornful tone he used when
referring to those whose walk in life was not so practical as his own.

'Not exactly. I met him a little while ago by chance. When I was getting
together the material for my little book on the old alchemists I read a
great deal at the library of the Arsenal, which, you may have heard, is
singularly rich in all works dealing with the occult sciences.'

Burden's face assumed an expression of amused disdain. He could not
understand why Dr Porhoët occupied his leisure with studies so
profitless. He had read his book, recently published, on the more
famous of the alchemists; and, though forced to admire the profound
knowledge upon which it was based, he could not forgive the waste of
time which his friend might have expended more usefully on topics of
pressing moment.

'Not many people study in that library,' pursued the doctor, 'and I
soon knew by sight those who were frequently there. I saw this gentleman
every day. He was immersed in strange old books when I arrived early in
the morning, and he was reading them still when I left, exhausted.
Sometimes it happened that he had the volumes I asked for, and I
discovered that he was studying the same subjects as myself. His
appearance was extraordinary, but scarcely sympathetic; so, though I
fancied that he gave me opportunities to address him, I did not avail
myself of them. One day, however, curiously enough, I was looking up
some point upon which it seemed impossible to find authorities. The
librarian could not help me, and I had given up the search, when this