“She lives here,” said old Tabaret, with a sigh of relief.
He got out of the cab, gave the driver his forty francs, bade him wait, and followed in the young woman’s footsteps.
“The old fellow is patient,” thought the driver; “and the little brunette is caught.”
The detective opened the door of the concierge’s lodge.
“What is the name of the lady who just came in?” he demanded.
The concierge did not seem disposed to reply.
“Her name!” insisted the old man.
The tone was so sharp, so imperative, that the concierge was upset.
“Madame Juliette Chaffour,” he answered.
“On what floor does she reside?”