number. He had only to go to one of his patients, a wine-merchant in the
Rue Therese, to find his address in the directory. It was but a step,
and he decided to run the risk; there was need of haste. Discouraged by
all the applications that he had made up to this time, disheartened by
betrayed hopes, irritated by rebuffs, he did not deceive himself as to
the chances of this last attempt, but at least he would try it, slight
though the hope of success might be.

It was an old house where Caffie lived, and had been formerly a private
hotel; it was composed of two wings, one on the street, the other on an
inside court. A porte cochere gave access to this court, and under its
roof, near the staircase, was the concierge's lodge. Saniel knocked at
the door in vain; it was locked and would not open. He waited several
minutes, and in his nervous impatience walked restlessly up and down the
court. At last an old woman appeared carrying a small wax taper. She
was feeble and bent, and began to excuse herself; she was alone and could
not be everywhere at the same time, in her lodge and lighting the lamps
on the stairways. Caffie lived on the first floor, in the wing on the
street.

Saniel mounted the stairs and rang the bell. A long time passed, or at
least it seemed long to him, before there was an answer. At last he
heard a slow and heavy step on the tiled floor and the door was opened,
but held by a hand and a foot.

"What do you wish?"

"Monsieur Caffie."

"I am he. Who are you?"