"More than half a league."
"You live——?"
"In the Rue Fossette."
"Not" (with animation), "not at the pensionnat of Madame Beck?"
"The same."
"Donc" (clapping his hands), "donc, vous devez connaitre mon noble élève, mon Paul?"
"Monsieur Paul Emanuel, Professor of Literature?"
"He, and none other."
A brief silence fell. The spring of junction seemed suddenly to have become palpable; I felt it yield to pressure.
"Was it of M. Paul you have been speaking?" I presently inquired. "Was he your pupil and the benefactor of Madame Walravens?"
"Yes, and of Agnes, the old servant; and moreover" (with a certain emphasis), "he was and is the lover, true, constant and eternal, of that saint in Heaven—Justine Marie."
"And who, father, are you?" I continued; and though I accentuated the question, its utterance was well-nigh superfluous; I was ere this quite prepared for the answer which actually came.
