As I started up the stairs the concierge knocked on the glass of the door of her lodge, and as I stopped she came out. She had some letters and a telegram.
“Here is the post. And there was a lady here to see you.”
“Did she leave a card?”
“No. She was with a gentleman. It was the one who was here last night. In the end I find she is very nice.”
“Was she with a friend of mine?”
“I don’t know. He was never here before. He was very large. Very, very large. She was very nice. Very, very nice. Last night she was, perhaps, a little—” She put her head on one hand and rocked it up and down. “I’ll speak perfectly frankly, Monsieur Barnes. Last night I found her not so gentille . Last night I formed another idea of her. But listen to what I tell you. She is très, très gentille . She is of very good family. It is a thing you can see.”
“They did not leave any word?”
“Yes. They said they would be back in an hour.”
“Send them up when they come.”
“Yes, Monsieur Barnes. And that lady, that lady there is someone. An eccentric, perhaps, but quelqu’une, quelqu’une !”
The concierge, before she became a concierge, had owned a drink-selling concession at the Paris racecourses. Her lifework lay in the pelouse