This patron, who had entered the café only a few minutes before, was a slender, nervous, sunburnt man about thirty years of age. He had strongly marked features, and was exceedingly quick in his movements. He picked up several newspapers in swift succession, and pretended to glance over them as he smoked his cigar, but his mind was evidently not upon what he was reading, that is, if he was reading at all, and at last, flinging the journal violently down upon the table, he called the waiter in a curt, peremptory tone. The waiter, a gray-haired man, hastened to respond to the summons. "Bring me a glass of absinthe, waiter," said the man with the cigar. "But your glass is still full, monsieur." "True." The man drained the glass, and the waiter refilled it. "Would you like to make a hundred sous?" asked the man with the cigar. And seeing the waiter gaze at him in astonishment, he repeated, in an even more brusque fashion: "I ask you if you want to make a hundred sous?" "But, monsieur--" "Do you or do you not? Answer me." "I should like to very much, but what am I to do, monsieur?" "Answer the questions I am going to put to you. Have you been here long?" "Ever since the café opened, about ten years ago." "Do you live here in the house?" "Yes, monsieur. I have a room in the fifth story." "Do you know all the inmates of the house?" "Either by name, or by sight, yes, monsieur, but that is all. I am the only waiter here, and I have no time to visit." After a moment of painful hesitation, during which the stranger's features betrayed the most poignant anxiety, he said to the waiter, in a slightly husky voice: "Who lives on the fourth floor?" "A lady, monsieur." "Nobody else?" "No, monsieur." "Is she a widow?" "I don't know, monsieur. She calls herself Madame Luceval, that is all I can tell you." "But you must understand that if I am to give you a hundred sous, I expect you to tell me something." "One can tell only what one knows, monsieur." "Of course, that is understood. But now answer me frankly. What do the people in the house think of this lady--this Madame--What did you call her?" "Madame Luceval, monsieur. A person would have to be very spiteful to gossip about her, for nobody ever sees her." "What?" "She always goes out at four o'clock in the morning, summer and winter, and though I never get to bed before midnight, I always hear her come in after I do." "Impossible!" exclaimed the man with the cigar, manifesting quite as much astonishment as the lady in mourning had done on hearing of M. Renaud's early hours. "The lady goes out at four o'clock every morning, you say?" "Yes, monsieur. I hear her close her door." "It passes my comprehension," muttered the man with the cigar. Then, after a moment's reflection, he added: "What does this lady do to take her out so early?" "I have no idea, monsieur." "But what do the people in the house think of it?" "Nothing, monsieur."