He had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than Fanferlot entered No. 39, gave his name to the porter as Prosper Bertomy, went upstairs, and knocked at the first door he came to.
It was opened by a youthful footman, dressed in the most fanciful livery.
“Is Mme. Gypsy at home?”
The groom hesitated; seeing this, Fanferlot showed his note, and said:
“M. Prosper told me to hand this note to madame, and wait for an answer.”
“Walk in, and I will let madame know you are here.”
The name of Prosper produced its effect. Fanferlot was ushered into a little room furnished in blue and gold silk damask. Heavy curtains darkened the windows, and hung in front of the doors. The floor was covered with a blue velvet carpet.
“Our cashier was certainly well lodged,” murmured the detective.
But he had no time to purse his inventory. One of the door-curtains was pushed aside, and Mme. Nina Gypsy stood before him.
Mme. Gypsy was quite young, small, and graceful, with a brown or rather gold-colored quadroon complexion, with the hands and feet of a child.