flowers and greenery upon the roof. He also caught the odour of a very respectable cigar, which the soft west wind blew towards him through the same opening.
On a door opposite the top of the steep fifth flight appeared a brass plate, with the name, Félix Drubarde.
Heathcote rang, and his summons was answered almost instantly from an unexpected direction.
A large, round, rubicund face peered through the skylight, and a voice asked if Monsieur desired an interview with Félix Drubarde.
"I have come here in that hope, Monsieur," answered Heathcote, "and I venture to infer that I have the honour of addressing Monsieur Drubarde."
"I am that individual, Monsieur," replied the rubicund gentleman, opening the skylight to its widest extent. "Would it be too much to ask you to ascend to my summer salon upon the leads? It is pleasanter even for a business interview than the confinement of four walls."
There was a steep straight ladder against the wall immediately under the skylight. Heathcote mounted this and emerged upon the roof, face to face with Félix Drubarde.
The retired police-officer's appearance was essentially rustic. His attire resembled the holiday costume of the station de bains rather than the normal garb of a great busy metropolis. He was clothed from head to foot in white linen; his garments were all of the loosest, and he wore a pair of ancient buff slippers, which had doubtless trodden the bitter biting foam on the beach of Dieppe or the sands of Trouville. Altogether, Monsieur Drubarde looked the very picture of comfort and coolness on this warm September morning. He had made for himself a garden upon an open space of flat leaded roof, which was belted round with ancient chimney-stacks of all shapes and sizes, just as a lawn is girdled with good old oaks and beeches. On one side of his garden he had rigged up a light lattice-work from chimney to chimney, and his nasturtiums and Virginia creepers had clothed the lattice with green and gold. This he called his allée verte, and he declared that it reminded him of Fontainebleau in the days of the famous Diana.
His garden was gorgeous with geraniums and roses, and perfumed with mignonette and honeysuckle. He had his morning coffee on a little iron table; he had a wicker-work easy-chair for himself, and another for a friend; and a smart rug, of the usual gaudy pattern to be seen in French lodging-houses, was spread under his slippered feet. He had his cigars and his newspaper, and, above all, he had a large and ancient black poodle of uncanny appearance, which looked as if he were the very dog under whose semblance the arch-fiend visited Dr. Faustus.
