“What? The police in the house? Well, good-by, then, to our lodgers; we are lost. Why did that stupid girl want to die, I wonder! But no doubt you are mistaken, my dear sir.”
“No, I am not. But you go too fast. They will simply ask you who that girl is, how she supports herself, and where she lived before she came here.”
“That is exactly what I cannot tell.”
The dealer in old clothes seemed to be amazed; he frowned and said,—
“Halloo! that makes matters worse. How came it about that Miss Henrietta had rooms in your house?”
The concierge was evidently ill at ease; something was troubling him sorely.
“Oh! that is as clear as sunlight,” he replied; “and, if you wish it, I’ll tell you the story; you will see there is no harm done.”
“Well, let us hear.”
“Well, then, it was about a year ago this very day, when a gentleman came in, well dressed, an eyeglass stuck in his eye, impudent like a hangman’s assistant, in fact a thoroughly fashionable young man. He said he had seen the notice that there was a room for rent up stairs, and wanted to see it. Of course I told him it was a wretched garret, unfit for people like him; but he insisted, and I took him up.”
“To the room in which Miss Henrietta is now staying?”