"Don't trouble; I will go down," and, without waiting for permission,
Mascarin descended some steps that apparently led to a cellar.

"It appears to me," murmured Father Canon, "that I have seen this cove's
face before."

Mascarin pushed open a door at the bottom of the flight of stairs, and
a strange and appalling noise issued from within (but this neither
surprised nor alarmed him), and entered a vaulted room arranged like a
_café_, with seats and tables, filled with customers. In the centre, two
men, in their shirt sleeves, with crimson faces, were performing upon
horns; while an old man, with leather gaiters, buttoning to the knee,
and a broad leather belt, was whistling the air the hornplayers were
executing. As Mascarin politely took off his hat, the performers ceased,
and the old man discontinued his whistling, while a well-built young
fellow, with pumps and stockings, and wearing a fashionable mustache,
exclaimed,--

"Aha, it is that good old Mascarin. I was expecting you; will you
drink?"

Without waiting for further invitation Mascarin helped himself from a
bottle that stood near.

"Did Father Canon tell you that I was here?" asked the young man, who
was the Florestan Mascarin had been inquiring for. "You see," continued
he, "that the police will not permit us to practise the horn; so, you
observe, Father Canon has arranged this underground studio, from whence
no sound reaches the upper world."