He laughed uneasily.
"You do not remember me, Madame?" he asked.
She relinquished the door-knob and emerged, inspecting his clothing.
"You are from Paris, of course. Last year perhaps, you came—"
"I did—last summer, Madame. I am Philidor—the artist."
"You! Monsieur! You Philidor!" She leaned forward upon the step, her eyes searching his face. "Philidor was not such as you. He wore a beard and—" She suddenly caught him by the shoulder and turned him toward the sunset. "I might think—and yet—"
"I am Philidor," he repeated, laughing. "I came in search of—of
Yvonne."
"You—are he! It is true. The saints be praised!" She threw the door inside open and called: "Jules! Jules! He is come. Monsieur Philidor is here!"
The ancien limped forward from the inner darkness, showing his gums.
"I knew it," he cried triumphantly. "Did I not say that he would return?"