Pelletan had grown paler at every word until he was fairly livid.
"Iss eet Monsieur Tellier to whom monsieur refers?" he stammered.
"I don't know his name, but he looks like a freak from the wax-works.
He's got to go—he's nearly as bad as Zeit-Zeit."
Pelletan mopped his shining forehead and groaned dismally.
"What is it, man?" demanded the American. "Don't tell me that this rascal has a hold on you!"
Pelletan groaned again, more dismally than before.
"I was told this afternoon," added Rushford, grimly, "that he was probably staying here at my expense."
"Eet iss not so!" cried Pelletan, his eyes flashing. "I pay for heem—efery tay I charge myself mit' twenty franc for hees account."
"But what on earth for?" demanded Rushford. "What have you done—robbed a bank or committed murder?"
Pelletan glanced around to assure himself that the door was tightly closed, then drew his chair nearer to his patron.