“He plays constantly, monsieur, but of last night I am not sure.  Last night was eventful for M. Cartel!  Last night—­But I speak too much!”

She glanced at Max, obviously desiring the question that would unloose her tongue.  But Max was not alert for gossip, he was listening instead to a faint sound, long drawn out and fine as a silver thread, that was slipping through the crevices of M. Cartel’s door.

“Ah, there he goes!” interjected the little woman.  “Always at the music, whatever life brings!”

“And I am right!  It was he who played last night.  How curious!”

The woman glanced up, memory quickening her expression.

“But, yes, monsieur, you are perfectly correct,” she said.  “M.  Cartel did play last night.  I remember now.  I was finishing the hem of a black dress for Madame Devet, of the rue des Abesses, when my husband came in at eleven o’clock.  He walked in, leaving the door open—­the door I came through this morning at your knock—­and he stood there, blowing upon his fingers, for it was cold.  ‘Our good Cartel is in love, Marthe!’ he said, laughing.  ‘He is making music like a bird in spring!’ And then, monsieur, the next thing was a great rush of feet down the stairs, and who should come flying into the hallway but M. Cartel himself.  He paused for an instant, seeing our door open, and he, too, was laughing.  ’What a fellow that Charpentier is!’ he cried to my husband.  ’His Louise has kept me until I am all but late for my rendezvous!’ And he ran out through the hall, singing as he went.  That was all I saw of M. Cartel until two o’clock this morning, when some one knocked upon our door—­”

But she was permitted to go no further.  The silvery notes of the violin had dwindled into silence, and Max abruptly remembered that he had an appointment with Blake on the Boulevard des Italiens.

“You are very good, madame, but it is necessary that I go!  When can I see the concierge?”

“The concierge, monsieur, is my husband.  He will be here for a certainty at one o’clock.”

“Good, madame!  At one o’clock I shall return.”

He smiled, nodded, and ran down the first flight of stairs; but by the window at the half-landing he stopped and looked back.

“Madame, tell me something!  What is the rent of the appartement?”

“The rent?  Two hundred and sixty francs the year.”

“Two hundred and sixty francs the year!” His voice was perfectly expressionless.  Then, apparently without reason, he laughed aloud and ran down-stairs.

The woman looked after him, half inquisitively, half in bewilderment; then to herself, in the solitude of the landing, she shook her head.

“An artist, for a certainty!” she said, aloud, and, turning, she retraced her steps and knocked with her knuckles on the door of M. Lucien Cartel.