I watched her for a moment as she mounted the stair, and then turned away. I caught a glimpse of the hideous concierge leering at me from her box, and hurried from the place, disgusted, resolved anew to seek another lodging. On through the streets I pressed, for I was anxious to have my errand done—along the crowded, clamorous Rue St. Honoré, to the Rue des Frondeurs, then to the Rue de l’Evêque—with leaping heart I saw again the corner where Nanette had sought shelter in my arms, months agone, it seemed!—and so onward across the Rue des Orties, to the Rue des Moulins.
She had described the house for me, and I had no difficulty in finding it, for a gilded board, bearing the legend
JACQUES RIBAUT,
BIJOUTIER.
projected into the street. I mounted the steps and knocked at the door, noting as I did so that the house was a large one and in good repair, a thing somewhat uncommon in Paris. A servant answered the knock, and I was surprised to see that he was in livery. M. Jacques Ribaut must indeed be wealthy.
“Is M. Ribaut within?” I asked.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“I wish to see him,” and, as the man hesitated, I added, “Tell him it is some one who brings him news from his niece.”
“Wait just a moment, Monsieur,” and the man disappeared down the hallway. He was back almost immediately.
“You are to enter, Monsieur,” he said, and I followed him down the hall. He opened a door before me, and I was in the presence of a little fat man whom I recognized at once. He knew me also, and he leaned back in his chair and gazed at me, his eyes agleam with hatred.
“What is your price, Monsieur?” he asked abruptly.