Then he stood stock still, waiting. Would the visitor insist? Yes, he would; the ring was repeated. M. Moche had nothing to fear, for the moment at any rate; had he not taken the precaution to double lock the door? Still, he must find out what was afoot. In one second the old fellow had plotted the whole plan of the line of behaviour he must adopt.
“Bless my soul,” he thought to himself, “it can only be a caller, a client, and there is no reason why I shouldn’t receive him; if by any chance it were Paulet, I need only refuse to open and leave him to kick his heels till the police arrive.”
At the third repetition of the summons, M. Moche put the tentative question:
“Who is it? What do you want?”
Through the door the old advocate caught the sound of a fresh young voice asking timidly:
“Is this M. Moche’s?”
“Yes, madame ... mademoiselle; but I don’t know if he can be seen. What is it about?”
“A lady wishes to speak to him—about a flat to let in the Rue de l’Evangile.”
Rue de l’Evangile, that was where M. Moche owned a property. Most certainly it would never do to send away this inquirer who appeared anxious to take rooms in his house.
So M. Moche turned the key in the lock and half opened the door to make sure his visitor was alone, and that no one suspicious accompanied her. Evidently there was no cause for alarm, and the old man stepped back and threw the portal wide open.