to the house in the Rue St. Roch which bore the recorded number, and
observed in a neighboring basement, behind a dangling row of neatly
inflated gloves, the attentive physiognomy of Bellegarde's informant--a
sallow person in a dressing-gown--peering into the street as if she were
expecting that amiable nobleman to pass again. But it was not to her
that Newman applied; he simply asked of the portress if M. Nioche were
at home. The portress replied, as the portress invariably replies, that
her lodger had gone out barely three minutes before; but then, through
the little square hole of her lodge-window taking the measure of
Newman's fortunes, and seeing them, by an unspecified process, refresh
the dry places of servitude to occupants of fifth floors on courts, she
added that M. Nioche would have had just time to reach the Cafe de la
Patrie, round the second corner to the left, at which establishment he
regularly spent his afternoons. Newman thanked her for the information,
took the second turning to the left, and arrived at the Cafe de la
Patrie. He felt a momentary hesitation to go in; was it not rather mean
to "follow up" poor old Nioche at that rate? But there passed across his
vision an image of a haggard little septuagenarian taking measured sips
of a glass of sugar and water and finding them quite impotent to sweeten
his desolation. He opened the door and entered, perceiving nothing at
first but a dense cloud of tobacco smoke. Across this, however, in a
corner, he presently descried the figure of M. Nioche, stirring the
contents of a deep glass, with a lady seated in front of him. The
lady's back was turned to Newman, but M. Nioche very soon perceived and
recognized his visitor. Newman had gone toward him, and the old man rose
slowly, gazing at him with a more blighted expression even than usual.

"If you are drinking hot punch," said Newman, "I suppose you are not
dead. That's all right. Don't move."

M. Nioche stood staring, with a fallen jaw, not daring to put out
his hand. The lady, who sat facing him, turned round in her place
and glanced upward with a spirited toss of her head, displaying the
agreeable features of his daughter. She looked at Newman sharply, to see
how he was looking at her, then--I don't know what she discovered--she
said graciously, "How d' ye do, monsieur? won't you come into our little
corner?"

"Did you come--did you come after ME?" asked M. Nioche very softly.

"I went to your house t