Story 2, Chapter VI.
Monsieur Jacques Despard.
A hundred yards brought me to the corner of this famous street, and twenty more to the front of Number 9, a large crazy looking house, that had the appearance of a common hotel, or cheap boarding-house.
The door stood open, and I could see down a long dark hall. But there was no knocker. A brass-handled bell appeared to be the substitute, under which were the words—“Tirez la sonette.”
I climbed the ricketty steps and rang. A slatternly female—a mulatto—half asleep, came slippering along the hall; and, on reaching the door, drawled out:—“Que voulez vous, Mosheu?”
“Does Monsieur Despard live here?”
“Moss’r Despard? Oui—oui.”
“Will you have the goodness to say that a gentleman wishes a word with him?”
The girl had not time to reply, before a side door was heard creaking open, and a head and shoulders were protruded into the hall. They were those of a man.
Though the hair of the head was tossed and frowsy, and the shirt that covered the shoulders looked as if it had passed through the “beggar’s mangle,” I had no difficulty in recognising the wearer. It was Monsieur Despard—Monsieur Despard en deshabille.