“Well, M. Chevassat, what a terrible thing this is!”

His visitor had been well drilled by his wife, and said neither yes nor no; but the old merchant was a man of experience, and knew how to loosen his tongue.

“The most disagreeable thing about it,” he said with an absent air, “is, that the doctor will report the matter to the police, and there will be an investigation.”

Master Chevassat nearly dropped his glass.

“What?  The police in the house?  Well, good-by, then, to our lodgers; we are lost.  Why did that stupid girl want to die, I wonder!  But no doubt you are mistaken, my dear sir.”

“No, I am not.  But you go too fast.  They will simply ask you who that girl is, how she supports herself, and where she lived before she came here.”

“That is exactly what I cannot tell.”

The dealer in old clothes seemed to be amazed; he frowned and said,—­

“Halloo! that makes matters worse.  How came it about that Miss Henrietta had rooms in your house?”

The concierge was evidently ill at ease; something was troubling him sorely.

“Oh! that is as clear as sunlight,” he replied; “and, if you wish it, I’ll tell you the story; you will see there is no harm done.”

“Well, let us hear.”

“Well, then, it was about a year ago this very day, when a gentleman came in, well dressed, an eyeglass stuck in his eye, impudent like a hangman’s assistant, in fact a thoroughly fashionable young man.  He said he had seen the notice that there was a room for rent up stairs, and wanted to see it.  Of course I told him it was a wretched garret, unfit for people like him; but he insisted, and I took him up.”

“To the room in which Miss Henrietta is now staying?”

“Exactly.  I thought he would be disgusted; but no.  He looked out of the window, tried the door if it would shut, examined the partition-wall, and at last he said, ‘This suits me; I take the room.’  And thereupon he hands me a twenty-franc piece to make it a bargain.  I was amazed.”

If M. Ravinet felt any interest in the story, he took pains not to show it; for his eyes wandered to and fro as if his thoughts were elsewhere, and he was heartily tired of the tedious account.

“And who is that fashionable young man?” he asked.

“Ah! that is more than I know, except that his name is Maxime.”

That name made the old merchant jump as if a shower-bath had suddenly fallen upon his head.  He changed color; and his small yellowish eyes had a strange look in them.

But he recovered promptly, so promptly, that his visitor saw nothing; and then he said in a tone of indifference,—­

“The young man did not give you his family name?”

“No.”

“But ought you not to have inquired?”

“Ah, there is the trouble!  I did not do it.”

Gradually, and by a great effort, Master Chevassat began to master his embarrassment.  It looked as if he were preparing himself for the assault, and to get ready for the police-officer.