"I supposed she was a customer of yours," I answered.
"It may be," she said. "Oh, yes, it may be; but does one know all one's customers?"
"That would be difficult," I said, laughing, "with such a connection as you have, madame."
"You are right, monsieur, it would be difficult. Do you require anything more?"
"Nothing more, thank you, madame."
She let an arrow fly. "I will send the articles home and the bill, if monsieur will kindly give me his address."
"Much obliged, madame," was my reply: "I will pay for them, and take them with me."
So the little passage at arms ended, and I walked away just a trifle wiser than I came, for I had learned that Madame Lourbet did not desire to talk about John Fordham's stepmother, and that there was some person behind the green curtain who also had an interest in the matter. Had I deemed it safe I would have kept watch for that person outside Madame Lourbet's shop, but I felt that I was dealing with a woman as clever as myself, and I recognized the necessity of caution. It was annoying, but there was no help for it.
The day had been one of the busiest in my recollection, and I was glad to sit down to a cup of tea in my own private apartment. During the meal I was debating how the incidents I have recorded could be turned to advantage, when the landlady came in and informed me that a man was down-stairs who insisted on seeing me. She did not like to let him up, she said, he was such a common-looking man; besides, he was the worse for liquor. But he would not go away.
"I did all I could, sir," said my landlady, "but go he wouldn't. 'Tell him it's Jack,' he said."