"You like the appartement, monsieur?"
He threw aside his disturbing thoughts.
"Undoubtedly, madame!" he said, quickly. "It is here that I shall live." Without conscious intention he used the phrase that he had used to Blake—that he had used to Madame Salas.
"You are quick of decision, monsieur?"
"It is well, at least, to know one's own mind, madame! And now tell me who I shall have for my neighbor." As they moved toward the head of the stairs, he indicated the second door on the landing—the door innocent of name, bell, or knocker.
"For neighbor, monsieur? Ah, I comprehend! That is the appartement of M. Lucien Cartel, a musician; but his playing will not disturb you, for the walls are thick—and, in any case, he is a good musician."
A conclusion, winged with excitement, formed itself in the mind of Max.
"Madame!" he cried. "He plays the violin—this M. Cartel?"
"Both violin and piano, monsieur. He has a great talent."
"And, madame, he played last night? He played last night between the hours of ten and eleven?"