"Pardon, m'sieu," he said, laying his finger on Dorrington's arm, "it is M. Dorrington—not?"
"Well—suppose it is, what then?" Dorrington never admitted his identity to a stranger without first seeing good cause.
"I 'ave beesness—very great beesness; beesness of a large profit for you if you please to take it. Where shall I tell it?"
"Come in here," Dorrington replied, leading the way to his private room. The man did not look like a wealthy client, but that signified nothing. Dorrington had made profitable strokes after introductions even less promising.
The man followed Dorrington, pulled off his cap, and sat in the chair Dorrington pointed at.
"In the first place," said Dorrington, "what's your name?"
"Ah, yas—but before—all that I tell is for ourselves alone, is it not? It is all in confidence, eh?"
"Yes, yes, of course," Dorrington answered, with virtuous impatience. "Whatever is said in this room is regarded as strictly confidential. What's your name?"
"Jacques Bouvier."
"Living at——?"