“Monsieur Jacques Bricheteau?”
“Yes; Monsieur Jacques Bricheteau; he lives here I believe.”
“Fourth floor above the entresol, door to the left. He has just come in, and you can overtake him on the stairs.”
Rapidly as I ran up, my man had the key of his door already in the lock when I reached him.
“Have I the honor of speaking to Monsieur Jacques Bricheteau?” I asked.
“Don’t know any such person,” he replied with effrontery, unlocking his door.
“Perhaps I pronounce the name incorrectly; I mean the organist of Saint-Louis-de-l’Ile.”
“I have never heard of any organist in this house.”
“Pardon me, monsieur, there is one, for the concierge has just told me so. Besides I saw you leave the organ loft of that church followed by an individual who—”
Before I could finish my sentence this singular individual cut short our interview by entering his apartment and locking the door behind him. For a moment I thought that I must have been mistaken; but on reflection I saw that a mistake was impossible. I had to do with a man who, for years, had proved his unremitting discretion. No, he was obstinately bent on avoiding me; I was not mistaken in recognizing him.