The two rooms, from having been stingily kept at first, were needing repairs half the time, and the occupants were often moving, now into one, now back into the other; yet the hair-trunk was seen only by glimpses, the landlord, to his infinite chagrin, always being a little too late in offering his services, the women, whether it was light or heavy, having already moved it.  He thought it significant.

Late one day of a most bitter winter,—­that season when, to the ecstatic amazement of a whole city-full of children, snow covered the streets ankle-deep,—­there came a soft tap on the corridor-door of this pair of rooms.  The lady opened it, and beheld a tall, lank, iron-gray man, a total stranger, standing behind—­Monsieur George!  Both men were weather-beaten, scarred, and tattered.  Across ’Sieur George’s crown, leaving a long, bare streak through his white hair, was the souvenir of a Mexican sabre.

The landlord had accompanied them to the door:  it was a magnificent opportunity.  Mademoiselle asked them all in, and tried to furnish a seat to each; but failing, ’Sieur George went straight across the room and sat on the hair-trunk.  The action was so conspicuous, the landlord laid it up in his penetrative mind.

’Sieur George was quiet, or, as it appeared, quieted.  The mulattress stood near him, and to her he addressed, in an undertone, most of the little he said, leaving Mademoiselle to his companion.  The stranger was a warm talker, and seemed to please the lady from the first; but if he pleased, nothing else did.  Kookoo, intensely curious, sought some pretext for staying, but found none.  They were, altogether, an uncongenial company.  The lady seemed to think Kookoo had no business there; ’Sieur George seemed to think the same concerning his companion; and the few words between Mademoiselle and ’Sieur George were cool enough.  The maid appeared nearly satisfied, but could not avoid casting an anxious eye at times upon her mistress.  Naturally the visit was short.

The next day but one the two gentlemen came again in better attire.  ’Sieur George evidently disliked his companion, yet would not rid himself of him.  The stranger was a gesticulating, stagy fellow, much Monsieur’s junior, an incessant talker in Creole-French, always excited on small matters and unable to appreciate a great one.  Once, as they were leaving, Kookoo,—­accidents will happen,—­was under the stairs.  As they began to descend the tall man was speaking:  “—­better to bury it,”—­the startled landlord heard him say, and held his breath, thinking of the trunk; but no more was uttered.

A week later they came again.

A week later they came again.

A week later they came yet again!