"Think it's an old master?" he asked with a wink. "Will you answer my question, you blockhead?" I said, threatening him with my stick. "I brought it from No. 42 Rue Notre Dame de Lorette," he whimpered, avoiding the cane as if it recalled disagreeable memories. "To whom did it belong?" "I don't know." "Speak out, my man, and you shall have this for your reward." The proffered half-franc made him voluble. "I was sent for it to No. 42. The concierge gave it to me. He had it carefully wrapped up: that made me laugh when I saw it opened." "How long ago did this happen?" "About six months. Where do _you_ live?" "What is that to you, my young friend?" "You had better not pass here often: the old man is furious that I sold the picture--asked me all about how you looked, and if you ever passed the shop. I told him I never saw you before, and that you had black hair and squinted." "Why did you say that?" "I owe him one. He beat me last night, and went off this morning without giving me a bite to eat. Last thing he said was, 'You are sure he squints?' I said, 'Yes, sure.'" Then, as I gave him the silver, the boy said, "Just mind the shop a moment, while I run and get something to eat;" and off he went, leaving me in charge. "What are you going to do about it?" asked my inner self ironically. "I am going to No. 42;" and without awaiting the boy's return I set out. A few minutes brought me to the street. I passed No. 42 in review from the opposite side of the way, thinking I might get some idea of its occupants from the exterior. The house, wedged in by similar houses, possessed no particular physiognomy. I gazed at each window in turn, and finally crossing the street asked the concierge, "What is the name of the artist living in this house?" "Only respectable people live here," he answered in a surly tone. "When did he leave?" I went on, determined not to notice his rudeness. "There has never been one here since I came." "How long have you been here?" "I can't remember." "But you can remember a picture that you sold to a furniture-dealer in the Rue St. Lazare about six months ago." "No I can't. I never sold one." "His boy told me he got it from you." "He is mistaken: I never sold one." "Perhaps it merely passed through your hands. No harm will come to you if you tell me what you know about it." "I know nothing," he exclaimed angrily, and began to pick up some scraps on the floor, so that I could not see his face. Evidently suspecting there was something wrong, and that he might be held accountable, the man was prepared to deny everything, and my time being limited I left. As I did so I saw a plainly-dressed individual approach him, and on once looking back I thought from their gestures they were speaking of me. Of course my inner self exclaimed, "Absurd!"