Three jaws lowered. Three pairs of eyes stared. Three pairs of front chair legs clumped to the floor. Taking their cue, three specimens of bewhiskered humanity “hoofed along ’bout their business.”
“Mr. Whitney at the hotel sent me to you,” Madelaine declared when they were alone and the soft-eyed old philosopher had dusted a chair and pushed the “spit-box” from sight. “He said you were well acquainted in Paris and could assist me in getting information about a particular person who may, or may not, live here at present. My name is Howland—Allegra Howland—and I come from Springfield, Mass. But my visit here and my business must remain unknown. I’d like you to assure me you’ll keep it confidential before I go further.”
The old man stroked his whiskers gently and his blue eyes smiled.
“Pat claimed I knowed everybody, did he? Wal, wal! He does manage to tell the truth once in a dog’s age. What is it you want to know, daughter?”
“It’s about a man named Forge. Has such a man ever lived here in Paris?”
Madelaine caught the startled expression which for a moment chilled the kindly laughter in those lackluster eyes.
“Which Forge, daughter? Nat or the old man?”
“There are two, then?”
“Nat and Johnathan. Nat’s the boy. Johnathan’s the dad. Which you want to know about?”
“The one called Nathaniel. He—he—several years ago—he—wrote a poem. It interested me greatly. So much so I thought if I ever happened up this way, I’d stop and compliment the poet.”