I must give it to him." With an instinct which he somehow felt could not err at this moment, Blakeney knew that the message was one from Armand to himself; a written message, too, since--instinctively when he spoke--the boy clutched at his thin shirt, as if trying to guard something precious that had been entrusted to him.
"I will deliver the message myself, sonny," said Blakeney gruffly.
"I know the citizen for whom it is intended.

He would not like the concierge to see it." "Oh! I would not give it to the concierge," said the boy.

"I would take it upstairs myself." "My son," retorted Blakeney, "let me tell you this.

You are going to give that message up to me and I will put five whole livres into your hand." Blakeney, with all his sympathy aroused for this poor pale-faced lad, put on the airs of a ruffianly bully.

He did not wish that message to be taken indoors by the lad, for the concierge might get hold of it, despite the boy's protests and tears, and after that Blakeney would perforce have to disclose himself before it would be given up to him.
During the past week the concierge had been very amenable to bribery.
Whatever suspicions he had had about his lodger he had kept to himself for the sake of the money which he received; but it was impossible to gauge any man's trend of thought these days from one hour to the next.
Something--for aught Blakeney knew--might have occurred in the past twenty-four hours to change an amiable and accommodating lodging-house keeper into a surly or dangerous spy.
Fortunately, the concierge had once more gone within; there was no one abroad, and if there were, no one probably would take any notice of a burly ruffian brow-beating a child.
"Allons!" he said gruffly, "give me the letter, or that five livres goes back into my pocket." "Five livres!" exclaimed the child with pathetic eagerness.