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But, suddenly, as the portress was breaking into lamentations and calling for help, Lupin flung himself on her and shook her:

“Stop that!… Listen to me … you can call out later…. Listen to me and answer me. It is most important. M. Lavernoux had a friend living in this street, had he not? On the same side, to the right? An intimate friend?”

“Yes.”

“A friend whom he used to meet at the café in the evening and with whom he exchanged the illustrated papers?”

“Yes.”

“Was the friend an Englishman?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mr. Hargrove.”

“Where does he live?”

“At No. 92 in this street.”

“One word more: had that old doctor been attending him long?”

“No. I did not know him. He came on the evening when M. Lavernoux was taken ill.”

Without another word, Lupin dragged me away once more, ran down the stairs and, once in the street, turned to the right, which took us past my flat again. Four doors further, he stopped at No. 92, a small, low-storied house, of which the ground-floor was occupied by the proprietor of a dram-shop, who stood smoking in his doorway, next to the entrance-passage. Lupin asked if Mr. Hargrove was at home.