“Does Monsieur Beaumagnan live here?”
The shutter of the peep-hole in the door had been drawn back; and the face of an old servant was pressed against the bars across it.
“He lives here. But he is not seeing anyone,” that servant said grumpily.
“Go and tell him that a gentleman has come from Mademoiselle Bridget Rousselin,” said Ralph imperiously.
The rooms of Beaumagnan were on the ground floor of a two-storied house. There was no janitor, no bell. There was an iron knocker to knock at the massive door, which was pierced by this peep-hole like a prison cell.
The servant went. Ralph waited more than five minutes. That a man should call, when they expected the young actress in person, was puzzling the three confederates.
The servant came back and said, still grumpily: “My master would be obliged if you would send in your card, sir.”
Ralph gave him his card.
There was another wait, then the noise of bolts being drawn back and the unhooking of a chain, and Ralph was led across a hall with a polished floor, like a convent parlor, the walls of which looked uncommonly damp.
They passed two or three doors and came to a room with double doors. The outer of these was padded with leather so that no sound could come through it. The old servant opened it, ushered Ralph into the room and shut the two doors, leaving him face to face with his three enemies. He could hardly regard them as anything else, for two of the three watched him enter with the air of boxers on guard and ready to lead.