“I say ‘yes.’”

“Come along, then!  I hope ’twon’t disappoint you!  There’s a good deal of rubbish here, but a scattering of grain among the chaff.  Ah, messieurs!  Good-evening!”

This last was addressed with cordiality to a knot of men gathered inside the doorway of the cabaret, all of whom rose politely from their chairs at Blake’s entry.

Max, peering curiously through the tobacco smoke that veiled the place, received an impression of a room—­rather, of a shop—­possessed of tables, chairs, a small circular counter where glasses and bottles winked and gleamed, and of walls hung with a truly Parisian collection of impressionist studies and clever caricatures.

“Monsieur is interested?”

He turned, to meet the eyes of the host, a stout and affable Frenchman, who by right divine held first place among the little group of loungers; but before he could frame a reply, Blake answered for him.

“He is an artist, M. Fruvier, and finds all life interesting.”

M. Fruvier bowed with much subtle comprehension.

“Then possibly it will intrigue him to step inside, and hear our little concert.  We are about to commence.”

Blake nodded in silent acquiescence; the knot of men bowed quickly and stiffly; and Max found himself being led across the bare, sawdust-strewn floor into an inner and larger room—­a holy of holies—­where the light was dimmer and the air more cool.

Here, a scattered audience was assembled—­a score or so of individuals, sober of dress, unenthusiastic of demeanor, sitting in twos and threes, sipping beer or liqueurs and waiting for the concert to begin.

Max’s eyes wandered over this collection of people while Blake sought for seats, but his glance and his interest passed on almost immediately to the walls, where, as in the outer room, pictures ranged from floor to ceiling.

The seats were chosen; a white-aproned waiter claimed an order, and Blake gave one as if from habit.

“And now, boy, a cigarette?”

“If you please—­a cigarette!” Max’s voice had the quick note, his eyes the swift light that spoke excitement. “Mon ami, I like this place!  I like it!  And I wonder who painted that?” He indicated a picture that hung upon the wall beside them.

“I don’t know!  Some chap who used to frequent the place in his unknown days.  We can ask Fruvier.”

“It is clever.”

“It is.”

“It has imagination.”

They both looked at the picture—­a study in black and white, showing an attic room, with a pierrette seated disconsolate upon a bed, a pierrot gazing through a window.

“Pierrot seeking the moon, eh?”

Max nodded.

“Yes.  It has imagination—­and also technique!”

But their criticism was interrupted; a piano was opened at the farther end of the room by an individual affecting the unkempt hair and velveteen coat of past Bohemianism, who seated himself and ran his fingers over the keys as though he alone occupied the room.