"Why don't you look her up? You mentioned you had her address."
"I haven't it now," said Jennings gloomily. "I called at the Hampstead house, and learned that Mrs. Herne had received such a shock from the death of her friend, Miss Loach, that she had gone abroad and would not return for an indefinite time. So I can do nothing in that quarter just now. It is for this reason that I have come here to ask about Maraquito."
"From Papa Le Beau," said Peggy, wrinkling her pretty brows. "What can he know of this woman?"
"She was a dancer until she had an accident. Le Beau may have had her through his hands."
"Maraquito, Maraquito," murmured Peggy, and shook her head. "No, I do not remember her. How old is she?"
"About thirty, I think; a fine, handsome woman like a tropical flower for coloring."
"Spanish. The name is Spanish."
"I think that is all the Spanish about her. She talks English without the least accent. Hush! here is papa."
It was indeed the little Professor, who rushed into the room and threw himself, blowing and panting, on the dingy sofa. He was small and dry, with black eyes and a wrinkled face. He wore a blonde wig which did not match his yellow complexion, and was neatly dressed in black, with an old-fashioned swallow-tail coat of blue. He carried a small fiddle and spoke volubly without regarding the presence of Miles.
"Oh, these cochons of English, my dear," he exclaimed to Peggy, "so steef—so wood-steef in the limbs. Wis 'em I kin do noozzn', no, not a leetle bit. Zey would make ze angils swear. Ah, mon Dieu, quel dommage I haf to teach zem."