"Ah, yes,—but I'm a bit hazy at times," added Horton.
"Well, when the fog comes down, say the word and I'll be going."
"Don't worry. I want to hear the news."
Quinlevin frowned at his walking stick. "It's little enough, God knows." Then glanced toward the invalid at the next window and lowered his voice a trifle.
"The spalpeen says not a word—or he's afflicted with pen-paralysis, for I've written him three times—twice since I reached Paris, giving him the address. So we'll have to make a move."
"What will you do?"
"Go to see him—or you can. At first, ye see, I thought maybe he'd gone away or died or something. But I watched the Hôtel de Vautrin in the Rue de Bac until I saw him with my own eyes. That's how I took this bronchitis—in the night air with devil a drink within a mile of me. I saw him, I tell you, as hale and hearty as ye please, and debonair like a new laid egg, with me, Barry Quinlevin, in the rain, not four paces from the carriage way."
The visitor paused as though for a comment, and Horton offered it.
"He didn't see you?"
"Devil a one of me. For the moment I thought of bracing him then and there. But I didn't—though I was reduced to a small matter of a hundred francs or so."