My excuses failed me when I heard this. Mr. Engelman and I left the house together.
As we approached the door of Madame Fontaine's lodgings, it was opened from within by the landlady, and a stranger stepped out into the street. He was sufficiently well dressed to pass for a gentleman—but there were obstacles in his face and manner to a successful personation of the character. He cast a peculiarly furtive look at us both, as we ascended the house-steps. I thought he was a police spy. Mr. Engelman set him down a degree lower in the social scale.
"I hope you are not in debt, ma'am," he said to the landlady; "that man looks to me like a bailiff in disguise."
"I manage to pay my way, sir, though it is a hard struggle," the woman replied. "As for the gentleman who has just gone out, I know no more of him than you do."
"May I ask what he wanted here?"
"He wanted to know when Madame Fontaine was likely to quit my apartments. I told him my lodger had not appointed any time for leaving me yet."
"Did he mention Madame Fontaine's name?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did he know that she lived here?"
"He didn't say."