“We must find out something, somehow,” he exclaimed impatiently.
And noticing a large grocery store bearing No. 62, he directed his steps towards it, still accompanied by Maxence.
It was the hour of the day when customers are rare. Standing in the centre of the shop, the grocer, a big fat man with an air of importance, was overseeing his men, who were busy putting things in order.
M. de Tregars took him aside, and with an accent of mystery,
“I am,” he said, “a clerk with M. Drayton, the jeweler in the Rue de la Paix; and I come to ask you one of those little favors which tradespeople owe to each other.”
A frown appeared on the fat man’s countenance. He thought, perhaps, that M. Drayton’s clerks were rather too stylish-looking; or else, perhaps, he felt apprehensive of one of those numerous petty swindles of which shopkeepers are constantly the victims.
“What is it?” said he. “Speak!”
“I am on my way,” spoke M. de Tregars, “to deliver a ring which a lady purchased of us yesterday. She is not a regular customer, and has given us no references. If she doesn’t pay, shall I leave the ring? My employer told me, ‘Consult some prominent tradesman of the neighborhood, and follow his advice.’”
Prominent tradesman! Delicately tickled vanity was dancing in the grocer’s eyes.
“What is the name of the lady?” he inquired.