"That cannot be she, then," answered Marlow.
"Stay, stay," said his companion, "that is au premier. On the second floor lodges Monsieur Drummond. Old man of sixty-eight. He has been here two years; and above Madame Dupont, an old French lady whom I know quite well. You must be mistaken, Monsieur, but we will go into this charcutier's just opposite, and inquire whether that is Madame Jervis who went in."
It proved to be so. The pork butcher had seen her as she passed the window, and Marlow's search had to begin again. When he and his companion returned to their inn, however, the man whom he had brought up from the country met him eagerly, saying, "I have seen her, sir! I have seen her! She passed by here not ten minutes ago, dressed in weeds like a widow, and walking very fast. I would swear to her."
"Oh, ho," said the man in black, "we will soon find her now," and calling to the landlord, who was as profoundly deferential towards him as the coachman had been, he said in the sweetest possible tone, "Will you have the goodness to let Monsieur Martin know that the bon homme grivois wishes to speak with him for a moment?"
It was wonderful with what rapidity Monsieur St. Martin, a tall, dashing looking personage, with an infinite wig, obeyed the summons of the bon homme grivois.
"Ah, bon jour, St. Martin," said the man in black.
"Bon jour, Monsieur," replied the other, with a profound obeisance.
"A lady of forty—has been handsome, fresh color, dark eyes, middle height, hair brown, hardly gray," said the man in black. "Dressed like an English widow, somewhat common air and manner, has come here within a year. Where is she to be found, St. Martin?"
The other, who had remained standing, took out his little book, and after consulting its pages diligently, gave a street and a number.