“Professor,” he said, when somewhat better, “I have come to ask you about a lady.  A friend of mine has fallen in love with her, and he thought you might know of her.”

“Eh, wha-a-at, mon cher?  I understands nozzin’, Ze lady.  Cruel nom?”

“Maraquito Gredos.”

“Espagnole,” murmured Le Beau, shaking his wig.  “Non.  I do not know ze name.  Dancers of Spain.  Ah, yis—­I haf had miny—­zey are not steef like ze cochon Englees.  Describe ze looks, mon ami.”

Jennings did so, to the best of his ability, but the old man still appeared undecided.  “But she has been ill for three years,” added Jennings.  “She fell and hurt her back, and—­”

“Eh—­wha-a-at Celestine!” cried Le Beau excitedly.  “She did fall and hurt hersilf—­eh, yis—­mos’ dredfil.  Conceive to yoursilf, my frien’, she slip on orange peels in ze streets and whacks comes she down.  Tree year back—­yis—­tree year.  Celestine Durand, mon fil.”

Jennings wondered.  “But she says she is Spanish.”

Le Beau flipped a pinch of snuff in the air.  “Ah, bah!  She no Spain.”

“So she is French,” murmured Jennings to himself.

“Ah, non; by no means,” cried the Frenchman unexpectedly.  “She no French.  She Englees—­yis—­I remembers.  A ver’ fine and big demoiselle.  She wish to come out at de opera.  But she too large—­mooch too large.  Englees—­yis—­La Juive.”

“A Jewess?” cried Jennings in his turn.

“I swear to you, mon ami.  Englees Jewess, mais oui!  For ten months she dance here, tree year gone.  Zen zee orange peels and pouf!  I see her no mores.  But never dance—­no—­too large, une grande demoiselle.”

“Do you know where she came from?”

“No.  I know nozzin’ but what I tell you.”

“Did you like her?”

Le Beau shrugged his shoulders.  “I am too old, mon ami.  Les femmes like me not.  I haf had mes affairs—­ah, yis.  Conceive—­” and he rattled out an adventure of his youth which was more amusing than moral.

But Jennings paid very little attention to him.  He was thinking that Maraquito-Celestine was a more mysterious woman than he had thought her.  While Jennings was wondering what use he could make of the information he had received, Le Beau suddenly flushed crimson.  A new thought had occurred to him.  “Do you know zis one—­zis Celestine Durand?  Tell her I vish money—­”

“Did she not pay you?”

Le Beau seized Jennings’ arm and shook it violently.  “Yis.  Tree pound; quite raight; oh, certainly.  But ze four piece of gold, a louis—­non—­ze Englees sufferin—­”

“The English sovereign.  Yes.”

“It was bad money—­ver bad.”

“Have you got it?” asked Jennings, feeling that he was on the brink of a discovery.

“Non.  I pitch him far off in rages.  I know now, Celestine Durand.  I admire her; oh, yis.  Fine womans—­a viecked eye.  Mais une—­no, not zat.  Bad, I tell you.  If your frien’ love, haf nozzin’ wis her.  She gif ze bad money, one piece—­” he held up a lean finger, and then, “Aha! ze bell for ze tables.  Allons, marchons.  We dine—­we eat,” and he dashed out of the room as rapidly as he had entered it.