coffee, so well made that he forgave her all delays and while he drank she talked.
"I have made up my old quarrel with the concierge, monsieur. She is a good woman, and has a brother who lives in the Rue du Pot-de-fer. As soon as she mentioned her brother I made it up with her."
"But why?" said Isez; "do you want to marry him?"
"Ah, monsieur must have his joke," laughed Manette; "no, but I could not rest until I found out about the house where monsieur went that evening in April. The brother says that the door by which monsieur entered was never there but the one night. A bit of the wall was knocked down, and a door set up; and after monsieur had been and gone the door was taken away, and the wall rebuilt with the old bricks, so that no one could see that any tricks had been played with it."
"Ah, my good Manette, but why all that mystery? And is there no front to the house?"
"Of the reason for the mystery I know nothing; but the brother says that the of the house is No. 7, Rue du Pèlerin."
"Perhaps," returned Isez, indifferently; but he went out immediately and took his way to the Rue du Pèlerin. He felt persuaded that when Eugène Durant spoke with his dying breath those words, "Rue du Pot-de-fer," he referred to the house where Isez had found the white invalid. There must be some connection between that strange being and the young man who had so disgraced himself, and had come to so tragic an end at the hand of his own father.
No. 7, Rue du Pèlerin was an ordinary-looking house, standing flush with other middle-class houses, and having nothing remarkable about it. The jalousies of the windows were closed, and the whole place appeared uninhabited. A stout, middle-aged woman appeared to be the concierge. She was unwilling to admit Isez; and it was only after long parleying and many assurances that he had been there before as surgeon to an invalid, that she allowed him to enter. As soon as he had permission to do so, he ascended the stairs, and on the first floor found the doors locked and barred. He knocked several times, but no reply came. He was about to ascend another flight and make further efforts, when a man came running down the stairs, and was recognised by Isez as one of the lackeys whom he had seen on the night of his adventure.
"Monsieur," said Isez, addressing the man, who was now in ordinary dress, "I have come to inquire after the health of the gentleman in white. It is about time that he was again let blood."
"He has given no orders on the subject," was the man's reply.
"I have also a message for him," said Isez; "I spent last night at the house of Colonel Hénon-Durant."
The countenance of the man showed surprise and interest. "Come with me." They went up the stairs and entered the ante-chamber, where now the white furniture was soiled and shabby.
"Be seated, M. Isez," said the lackey, "and tell me what you have to say."
Isez then told the story of what had happened on the previous evening, but without naming the name of the black horseman. As he spoke he saw that the man's interest was aroused and increased. At the point of the robbery a cunning smile played over the face of the servant, but at the account of the death of the young Eugène Durant the man held his breath and listened with the most eager excitement,
"What—what was the name?"
"Eugène Hénon-Durant, son of Colonel"
"It is he!" exclaimed the man. "Dead, dead!"
"Your master?" said Isez.
"My master, and dead—all over—the strange masquerade, the rollicking life, the escapades on the roads, the purses of gold, the splendid furniture, the practical jokes, the magnificent suppers—and he is dead, and all is over! Well, better that than a madhouse, to which it must have come at last!"
"Was he then insane?" asked Isez.
"At times. Oh, his life was a strange one. Perhaps for a week living quietly with his father; then some night he would take to the road, either with us or alone, and he would ride in here in the early morning with money and valuables, and he would send us out to bring in all that was expensive and delicious, and we would feast and gamble and live the wildest life while the money lasted, after which would begin again the round of Colonel Durant's quiet home, and the road once more. And he is dead, and what shall we do?"
"On that evening in April," said Isez, "when I was last here, was the young gentleman in his right mind?"
"Sir, drink and play made him often
