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See, I have not left the house for three days." There was a genial simplicity about the man; Suvaroff felt overcome with confusion. "What is the matter? Are you ill?" he stammered, closing the door. "No. I am afraid to go out. There is somebody waiting for me. Tell me, did you see a cripple standing on the corner, near Bollo's Wine Shop, as you came in?" Suvaroff reflected.
"What am I thinking about?" he demanded. Then he rose, paid his bill, and departed. He turned back to his lodgings. At Bollo's Wine Shop he hesitated. A knot of people stood at the entrance of the Hôtel des Alpes Maritimes, and a curious wagon was drawn up to the curb. He stopped a child. "What is the trouble?" he inquired. The girl raised a pair of mournful eyes to him.
All this he could have stood if it had not been for the fiendish noise which, he began to feel, was being played merely for his torture. He put on his hat and stumbled down-stairs, out into the night. Crossing the street, he went at once to Bollo's Wine Shop. The hunchback was sitting on a garbage-can, almost at the entrance.
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