I passed into a dim lobby, to be challenged by a sleepy
voice behind a half open window. The owner of the voice kept himself
invisible and was no doubt in the bunk which he called his bed. Only a
stern sense of duty as concierge woke him up enough to demand,
mechanically, who it was that the strange monsieur desired to visit at
this late hour?
I replied according to instructions. I wished to see Monsieur Gestre.
"Monsieur Gestre is away," murmured the voice behind the little window.
I thought quickly. Gestre was probably the "pal" whom "J.M." had been in
such a hurry to find. "Very well," said I, "I'll see his friend, the
Englishman who arrived this evening. I have an appointment with him."
"Ah, I understand. I remember. Is it not that Monsieur has been here
already? He now returns, as he mentioned that he might do?"
Again my thoughts made haste to arrange themselves. The "monsieur" who
had called had probably also arrived late, after the concierge had gone
to bed in his dim box, and become too drowsy to notice such details as
the difference between voices, especially if they were those of
foreigners. Perhaps if I explained that I was not the person who had
said he would come again, but another, the man behind the window would
consider me a complication, and refuse to let me pass at such an hour
without a fuss.
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