"I want to speak with you about the affair of to-night."
"What affair?"
"To-night's affair."
"To-night? I go to a supper-party at St. Germain. What have you to say about that?"
"Last night, then," M. Étienne amended, with rising temper. "If you want me to shout it out on your stairs, the St. Quentin affair."
"Now, what may you mean by that?" called the voice from within. If Peyrot was startled by the name, he carried it off well.
"You know what I mean. Shall I take the house into our confidence?"
"The house knows as much of your meaning as I. See here, friend of Bernet, if you are that gentleman's mate, perhaps you have a password about you."
"Aye," said M. Étienne, readily. "This is it: twenty pistoles."
No answer came immediately; I could guess Peyrot puzzled. Presently he called to us: