he went on, leering at the postman, "I serve a master who is a rare
man, and if he took it into his head to kiss the sole of the foot of
an empress, she would have to give in to him. If he had need of you,
which is what I wish for you, for he is generous, could one count on
you?"

"Lord, Monsieur Laurent, my name is Moinot. My name is written exactly
like _Moineau_, magpie: M-o-i-n-o-t, Moinot."

"Exactly," said Laurent.

"I live at No. 11, Rue des Trois Freres, on the fifth floor," went on
Moinot; "I have a wife and four children. If what you want of me
doesn't transgress the limits of my conscience and my official duties,
you understand! I am your man."

"You are an honest fellow," said Laurent, shaking his hand. . . .

"Paquita Valdes is, no doubt, the mistress of the Marquis de San-Real,
the friend of King Ferdinand. Only an old Spanish mummy of eighty
years is capable of taking such precautions," said Henri, when his
_valet de chambre_ had related the result of his researches.

"Monsieur," said Laurent, "unless he takes a balloon no one can get
into that hotel."

"You are a fool! Is it necessary to get into the hotel to have
Paquita, when Paquita can get out of it?"

"But, sir, the duenna?"