The knowledge of a human presence emboldened him; again he knocked, this time more sharply, more persistently.  Again inattention; then, as he lifted his hand for the third time, the hum of the machine ceased abruptly, the door opened, and he turned to confront a small woman with wispy hair and untidy clothes, whose bodice was adorned with innumerable pins, and at whose side hung a pair of scissors large as shears.

“Monsieur?” Her manner was curt—­the manner of one who has been disturbed at some engrossing occupation.

Max felt rebuffed; he raised his hat and bowed with as close an imitation as he could summon of Blake’s ingratiating friendliness.

“Madame, you have an appartement to let?”

“True, monsieur!  An appartement on the fifth floor—­gas and water.”  There was pride in the last words, if a grudging pride.

“Precisely!  And it is a good appartement?”

“No better in Montmartre.”

“A sufficiency of light?”

‘Light?’ The woman smiled in scorn.  ’Was it not open to the skies—­with those two windows in front, and that balcony?’

Max’s excitement kindled.

“Madame, I must see this appartement!  May I mount now—­at once?”

But the matter was no such light one.  Madame shook her head.  ’Ah, that was not possible!’

‘Why not?’

‘Ah, well, there was the concierge!  The concierge was out.’

‘But the concierge would return?’

‘Oh yes!  It was true he would return!’

The little woman cast a wistful eye on the door of her own room.

‘At what hour?’

‘Ah!  That was a question!’

‘This morning?’

‘Possibly!’

‘This afternoon?’

‘Possibly!’

‘But not for a certainty?’

‘Nothing was entirely certain.’

Anger broke through Max’s disappointment.  Without a word he turned on his heel and strode down the hall with the air of an offended prince.

The woman watched him with an expressionless face until he reached the door, then something—­perhaps his youth, perhaps his brave carriage, perhaps his defiant disappointment—­moved her.

“Monsieur!” she called.

He stopped.

“Monsieur, if it is absolutely necessary that you see the appartement—­”

“It is.  Absolutely necessary.”  Max ran back.

“Then, monsieur, I will conduct you up-stairs.”

The suggestion was greedily seized upon.  This appartement on the fifth floor had grown in value with each moment of denial.

“Thank you, madame, a thousand times!”

“Shall we mount?”

“On the moment, if you will.”

Through the glass door they went, and up the stairs, mounting higher and ever higher in an unbroken silence.  Half way up each flight of stairs there was a window through which the light fell upon the bare oak steps, proving them to be spotless and polished as the floor of a convent.  It was an unexpected quality, this rigid cleanliness, and the boy acknowledged it with a mute and deep satisfaction.