We were soon out in the street.
“Do you know,” said De Kock slowly, lighting a cigar and looking up at the house, “Do you know, I thought something had happened.”
“And don't you now.”
“I am not sure,” answered my friend.
CHAPTER II.
We were pardonably curious to see the papers next morning. The affair was dismissed in three lines, and although as De Kock swore, the case was one for Gaboriau, it certainly was not our business to look into it and in fact in a week's time I was back in Canada, and he up to his eyes in commercial pursuits. The main point remained clear, however, that Martinetti did not come back, nor was he found, or traced or ever heard of again. Somebody took the business out of hand, as they say, and De Kock would occasionally write a P. S. to his letters like this—“Dined at poor Martinetti's, Chiante as usual. Ever yours.” Or it would be—“Drank to the production of your last new comedy at Martinetti's.” Once he stated that shortly after that memorable night Madame disappeared also, taking the parrot along. “I begin to think they are a pair of deep ones and up to some big game” he wrote. For myself, I never entirely forgot the circumstance, although it was but once vividly recalled to my mind and that was in a theatre in Montreal. An American company from one of the New York theatres was performing some farcical comedy or other in which occurred the comic song, admirably sung and acted by Miss Kate Castleton, “For goodness sake don't say I told you!” The reminiscences forced upon me quite spoiled my enjoyment; I could see that pale, nervous woman, hear her screams, and hear too the fearful voice of the poor parrot. Where is it now, thought I? That same winter I was much occupied in making studies of the different classes of people among the French-Canadians. The latter turn up everywhere in Montreal, and have a distinct “local color” about them which I was curious to get and hope to preserve for use some future day. I went everywhere and talked to everybody who might be of use to me; cabmen, porters, fruit dealers and tobacconists. I found much to interest me in the various Catholic institutions, and I was above all very fond of visiting the large, ugly gray building with the air of a penitentiary about it called the Grey Nunnery. Going through its corridors one day I took a wrong turning and found I was among some at least quasi-private rooms. The doors being open I saw that there were flowers, books, a warm rug on the floor of one and a mirror on the wall of another. The third I ventured to step inside of, for a really beautiful Madonna and child confronted me at the door. The next moment I saw what I had not expected to see—a parrot in a cage suspended from the window! I made quite sure that it was not the parrot before I went up to it. It was asleep and appeared to be all over of a dull grey color, to match the Nuns, one might have said. I stood for quite a little while regarding it. Suddenly it stirred, shook itself, awoke and seeing me, immediately broke out into frantic shrieks to the old refrain “And for goodness sake don't say I told you.”
So it was the parrot after all! Of that I felt sure, despite the changed color, not only because of the same words being repeated—two birds might easily learn the same song, but because of the bird's manner. For I felt certain that the thing knew me, recognized me, as we say of human beings or of dogs and horses. I felt an extraordinary sensation coming over me and sat down for a moment. I seemed literally to be in the presence of something incomprehensible as I watched the poor excited bird beating about and singing in that way. The words of the song became painfully and awfully significant—“for goodness sake don't say I told you!” They were an appeal to my pity, to my sense of honor, to my power of secrecy, for I felt convinced that the bird had seen something—in fact that, to use De Kock's convenient if ambiguous phrase, something had happened! Then to think of its recognizing me too, after so long an interval! What an extraordinary thing to do! But I remembered, and hope I shall never forget, how exceeding small do the mills of the gods grind for poor humanity. I would have examined the creature at once more closely had not two of the nuns appeared with pious hands lifted in horror at the noise. They knew me slightly but affected displeasure at the present moment.
“Who owns this bird?” said I. It was still screaming.