He thought some one wished to consult him, some countryman who had waited for his return; and, although he did not feel like listening patiently to idle complainings, he turned back and entered the lodge.
"Some one brought this," the concierge said, handing him a paper that was stamped and covered with a running handwriting. "This" was the beginning of the fire of which Caffie had spoken. Without reading it, Saniel put it in his pocket and turned to go; but the concierge detained him.
"I would like to say two words to 'monchieur le docteur' about this paper."
"Have you read it?"
"No, but I talked with the officer who gave it to me, and he told me what it meant. It is unfortunate, doctor."
To be pitied by his concierge! This was too much.
"It is not as he told you," he replied, haughtily.
"So much the better. I am glad for you and for me. You can pay my little bill."
"Give it to me."
"I have given it to you twice already, but I have a copy. Here it is."