"What for?" demanded the concierge, eyeing the Spaniard from head to foot.
"What for? why, don't you know me? I am Chamoureau, Freluchon's best friend."
"Yes, I recognize monsieur now, in spite of his masquerade."
"I am going up to my friend's room to get my clothes—unless Freluchon left them with you."
"Monsieur Freluchon left nothing with me, and it ain't worth while for you to go up, as there's no one there. Monsieur Freluchon didn't come home to sleep."
"What's that you say, concierge? it's impossible."
"It's the truth, monsieur."
"Then you have my clothes here?"
"No, monsieur. Last night, if you remember, Monsieur Freluchon came in with a boy who had a bundle—your clothes, no doubt."
"Well, yes; what then?"