‘I am not particular,’ said Jack, in French, to his wife, ‘but I should not like to find myself living cheek by jowl with a burglar.’ ‘Or a spy,’ suggested Zaïre. ‘We have no spies in London. That is a profession which has never found a footing on this side of the Channel.’ The landlady was a lean-looking widow, with a false front of gingery curls, and a cap that quivered all over with artificial flowers on corkscrew wires. Her long nose was tinted at the extremity, and her eyes had a luminous yet glassy look, suggestive of ardent spirits. ‘I have only one lady in the parlours,’ she explained, ‘and a very clever lady she is too, and quite the lady--Mrs. Rawber, who plays leading business at the Shakespeare. You must have heard of her. She’s a great woman.’ Mr. Chicot apologized for his ignorance. He had been living so long in Paris that he knew nothing of Mrs. Rawber. ‘Ah,’ sighed the landlady, ‘you don’t know how much you’ve lost. Her Lady Macbeth is as fine as Mrs. Siddons’s.’ ‘Did you ever see Mrs. Siddons?’ ‘No, but I’ve heard my mother talk about her. She couldn’t have been greater in the part than Mrs. Rawber. You should go and see her some night. She’d make your flesh creep.’ ‘And a respectable old party, I suppose,’ suggested Jack Chicot. ‘As regular as clockwork. Church every Sunday morning and evening. No hot suppers. Crust of bread and cheese and glass of ale left ready on her table against she comes home--lets herself in with her key--no sitting up for her. Chop and imperial pint of Guinness at two o’clock, when there ain’t no rehearsal; something plain and simple that can be kept hot on the oven top, when the rehearsal’s late. She’s a model lodger. No perquisites, but pay as regular as the Saturday comes round, and always the lady.’ ‘Ah,’ said Jack, ‘that’s satisfactory. How about upstairs? I suppose you’ve another pattern of commonplace respectability on your second floor?’ The landlady gave a faint cough, as if she were troubled with a sudden catching of the breath, and her eyes wandered absently to the window, where she seemed to ask counsel from the grey October sky. ‘Who are your upstairs lodgers?’ asked Jack Chicot, repeating his inquiry with a shade of impatience. ‘Lodgers? No, sir. There’s only one gentleman on my second floor. I have never laid myself out for families. Children are such mischievous young monkeys, and always tramping up and down stairs, or endangering their lives leaning out of winder, or leaving the street door open. And the damage they do the furniture! Well, nobody can understand that except them as have passed through the ordeal. No, sir, for the last six years I haven’t had a child across my threshold.’ ‘I wasn’t inquiring about children,’ said Mr. Chicot; ‘I was asking about your upstairs lodger.’ ‘He’s a single gentleman, sir.’ ‘Young?’ ‘No, sir; middle-aged.’ ‘An actor?’ ‘No, sir. He has nothing to do with the theatres.’ ‘What is he?’