ht, the
day was so hot, and I was a long time hushing them to sleep. Yes, it
must have been after ten, because they were asleep, and the man
stumbling on the stairs woke Pierre. And he cried for an hour. Didn't
you, my angel?"

She picked one of the brats up in her arms to display him to us. M.
Etienne asked:

"What man?"

"Why, the one that came for him. The one he went out with."

"And what sort of person was this?"

"Nay, how was I to see? Would I be out walking the common passage with a
child to hush? I was rocking the cradle."

"But who does come here to visit M. Bernet?"

"I've never seen any one, monsieur. I've never laid eyes on M. Bernet
but twice. I keep in my apartment. And besides, we have only been here a
week."

"I thank you, madame," M. Etienne said, turning to the stairs.

She ran out to the rail, babies and all.

"But I could take a message for him, monsieur. I will make a point of
seeing him when he comes in."

"I will not burden you, madame," M. Etienne answered from the story
below. But she was loath to stop talking, and hung over the railing to
call:

"Beware of your footing, monsieur. Those second-floor people are not so
tidy as they might be; one stumbles over all sorts of their rubbish out
in the public way."

The door in front of us opened with a startling suddenness, and a big,
brawny wench bounced out to demand of us:

"What is that she says? What are you saying of us, you slut?"

We had no mind to be mixed in the quarrel. We fled for our lives down
the stair.

The old carl, though his sweeping was done, leaned on his broom on the
outer step.

"So you didn't find M. Bernet at home? I could have told you as much had
you been civil enough to ask."

I would have kicked the old curmudgeon, but M. Etienne drew two gold
pieces from his pouch.

"Perchance if I ask you civilly, you will tell me with whom M. Bernet
went out last night?"

"Who says he went out with anybody?"

"I do," and M. Etienne made a motion to return the coins to their place.

"Since you know so much, it's strange you don't know a little more," the
old chap growled. "Well, Lord knows if it is really his, but he goes by
the name of Peyrot."

"And where does he lodge?"

"How should I know? I have trouble enough keeping track of my own
lodgers, without bothering my head about other people's."

"Now rack your brains, my friend, over this fellow," M. Etienne said
patiently, with a persuasive chink of