“Zora is a very pretty name,” observed Mascarin solemnly.

“Yes, sir, just what the maid and I told her.  She is a splendid woman, and doesn’t she just squander the shiners?  Thirty thousand francs have gone since yesterday.”

“I can hardly credit it.”

“Not cash, you understand, but tick.  M. de Gandelu has not a sou of his own in the world, so a waiter at Potier’s told me, and he knew what was what; but the governor is rolling in money.  Yesterday they had a house-warming—­the dinner, with wine, cost over a thousand francs.”

Not seeing how to utilize any of this gossip, Mascarin made a gesture of dismissal, when the woman exclaimed,—­

“Stop, sir, I have something to tell you.”

“Well,” said Mascarin, throwing himself back in his chair with an air of affected impatience, “let us have it.”

“We had eight gents to dinner, all howling swells, but my master was the biggest masher of the lot.  Madame was the only woman at table.  Well, by ten o’clock, they had all had their whack of drink, and then they told the porter to keep the courtyard clear.  What do you think they did then?  Why, they threw plates, glasses, knives, forks, and dishes bang out of the window.  That is a regular swell fashion, so the waiter at Potier’s told me, and was introduced into Paris by a Russian.”

Mascarin closed his eyes and answered languidly, “Go on.”

“Well, sir, there was one gent who was a blot on the whole affair.  He was tall, shabbily dressed, and with no manners at all.  He seemed all the time to be sneering at the rest.  But didn’t Madame make up to him just.  She kept heaping up his plate and filling his glass.  When the others got to cards, he sat down by my mistress, and began to talk.”

“Could you hear what they said?”

“I should think so.  I was in the bedroom, and they were near the door.”

“Dear me,” remarked Mascarin, appearing much shocked, “surely that was not right?”

“I don’t care a rap whether it was right or not.  I like to hear all about the people whom I engage with.  They were talking about a M. Paul, who had been Madame’s friend before, and whom the gentleman also knew.  Madame said that this Paul was no great shakes, and that he had stolen twelve thousand francs.”

Mascarin pricked up his ears, feeling that his patience was about to meet its reward.

“Can you tell me the gentleman’s name, to whom Madame said all this?” asked he.

“Not I. The others called him ‘The painter.’”

This explanation did not satisfy Mascarin.

“Look here, my good girl,” said he, “try and find out the fellow’s name.  I think he is an artist who owes me money.”

“All right!  Rely on me; and now I must be off, for I have breakfast to get ready, but I’ll call again to-morrow;” and with a curtsy she left the room.

Mascarin struck his hand heavily on the table.