That was all I saw of M.Cartel until two o'clock this morning, when some one knocked upon our door--" But she was permitted to go no further.

The silvery notes of the violin had dwindled into silence, and Max abruptly remembered that he had an appointment with Blake on the Boulevard des Italiens.
"You are very good, madame, but it is necessary that I go! When can I see the _concierge_ ?" "The _concierge_, monsieur, is my husband.

He will be here for a certainty at one o'clock." "Good, madame! At one o'clock I shall return." He smiled, nodded, and ran down the first flight of stairs; but by the window at the half-landing he stopped and looked back.
"Madame, tell me something! What is the rent of the _appartement_ ?" "The rent?
Two hundred and sixty francs the year." "Two hundred and sixty francs the year!" His voice was perfectly expressionless.

Then, apparently without reason, he laughed aloud and ran down-stairs.
The woman looked after him, half inquisitively, half in bewilderment; then to herself, in the solitude of the landing, she shook her head.
"An artist, for a certainty!" she said, aloud, and, turning, she retraced her steps and knocked with her knuckles on the door of M.
Lucien Cartel.
Meanwhile, Max finished his descent of the stairs, his feet gliding with pleasant ease down the polished oak steps, his hand slipping smoothly down the polished banister.

Already the joy of the free life was singing in his veins, already in spirit he was an inmate of this house of many histories.