“There are many such houses in Paris,” said Ethan. “And we’ve passed some of them within the last ten minutes.”
“But none wid the window gardens at the second floor,” declared Longsword. “Sure, the landlady’s wee bit of a daughter were telling me the names of all the flowers while ye and the captain were off to the commissioner’s this morning. Of course I couldn’t understand a word she said, but that made no differ at all, at all. Oh, yes, this is the house.”
The window gardens settled it with Ethan, so they went up the high stone steps and beat a sharp rat-tat upon the big brass knocker.
The Rue Constantine was dark; there were few people abroad, as the night was cold and the frozen snow upon the walks made the footing treacherous. Lights gleamed from a few windows, the curtains of which had not been drawn; now and then a vehicle would go rattling heavily by, crunching the ice under its wheels. The door opened and a bald old man with spectacles looked at them sharply from the threshold.
“Where are you from?” he asked, in an odd sort of way.
“The United States,” answered Ethan, wonderingly.
The bald man stood aside and allowed them to enter; then he closed the door and said rather angrily,
“You should have answered, America.”
Ethan and Longsword exchanged glances and smiled. They had not seen the old man before, and looked at him curiously. Of course, the Irishman did not understand what he said, but his shining pall and his jerky way of looking over the rims of his big spectacles was sufficient for Longsword; he nodded and smiled to the old man, in great good humor.
“Is the captain at home, do you know?” asked Ethan.