She ran out to the rail, babies and all.

“But I could take a message for him, monsieur.  I will make a point of seeing him when he comes in.”

“I will not burden you, madame,” M. Etienne answered from the story below.  But she was loath to stop talking, and hung over the railing to call: 

“Beware of your footing, monsieur.  Those second-floor people are not so tidy as they might be; one stumbles over all sorts of their rubbish out in the public way.”

The door in front of us opened with a startling suddenness, and a big, brawny wench bounced out to demand of us: 

“What is that she says?  What are you saying of us, you slut?”

We had no mind to be mixed in the quarrel.  We fled for our lives down the stair.

The old carl, though his sweeping was done, leaned on his broom on the outer step.

“So you didn’t find M. Bernet at home?  I could have told you as much had you been civil enough to ask.”

I would have kicked the old curmudgeon, but M. Etienne drew two gold pieces from his pouch.

“Perchance if I ask you civilly, you will tell me with whom M. Bernet went out last night?”

“Who says he went out with anybody?”

“I do,” and M. Etienne made a motion to return the coins to their place.

“Since you know so much, it’s strange you don’t know a little more,” the old chap growled.  “Well, Lord knows if it is really his, but he goes by the name of Peyrot.”

“And where does he lodge?”

“How should I know?  I have trouble enough keeping track of my own lodgers, without bothering my head about other people’s.”

“Now rack your brains, my friend, over this fellow,” M. Etienne said patiently, with a persuasive chink of his pouch.  “Recollect now; you have been sent to this monsieur with a message.”

“Well, Rue des Tournelles, sign of the Gilded Shears,” the old carl spat out at last.

“You are sure?”

“Hang me else.”

“If you are lying to me, I will come back and beat you to a jelly with your own broom.”

“It’s the truth, monsieur,” he said, with some proper show of respect at last.  “Peyrot, at the Gilded Shears, Rue des Tournelles.  You may beat me to a jelly if I lie.”

“It would do you good in any event,” M. Etienne told him, but flinging him his pistoles, nevertheless.  The old fellow swooped upon them, gathered them up, and was behind the closed door all in one movement.  But as we walked away, he opened a little wicket in the upper panel, and stuck out his ugly head to yell after us: 

“If M. Bernet’s not at home yet, neither will his friend be.  I’ve told you what will profit you none.”

“You mistake, Sir Gargoyle,” M. Etienne called over his shoulder.  “Your information is entirely to my needs.”

XXIII

The Chevalier of the Tournelles.