The landlord had no reply.  It was little to him, his manner intimated; his contemplation dwelt on deeper flaws in human right and wrong; yet—­but it was needless to discuss it.  However, he did speak.

“Ah was elevade in Pariz.”

“Educated in Paris,” exclaimed Joseph, admiringly.  “Then you certainly cannot find your education dead stock.”

The grave, not amused, smile which was the landlord’s only rejoinder, though perfectly courteous, intimated that his tenant was sailing over depths of the question that he was little aware of.  But the smile in a moment gave way for the look of one who was engrossed with another subject.

“M’sieu’,” he began; but just then Joseph made an apologetic gesture and went forward to wait upon an inquirer after “Godfrey’s Cordial;” for that comforter was known to be obtainable at “Frowenfeld’s.”  The business of the American drug-store was daily increasing.  When Frowenfeld returned his landlord stood ready to address him, with the air of having decided to make short of a matter.

“M’sieu’ ——­”

“Have a seat, sir,” urged the apothecary.

His visitor again declined, with his uniform melancholy grace.  He drew close to Frowenfeld.

“Ah wand you mague me one ouangan,” he said.

Joseph shook his head.  He remembered Doctor Keene’s expressed suspicion concerning the assault of the night before.

“I do not understand you, sir; what is that?”

“You know.”

The landlord offered a heavy, persuading smile.

“An unguent?  Is that what you mean—­an ointment?”

“M’sieu’,” said the applicant, with a not-to-be-deceived expression, “vous etes astrologue—­magicien—­”

“God forbid!”

The landlord was grossly incredulous.

“You godd one ‘P’tit Albert.’”

He dropped his forefinger upon an iron-clasped book on the table, whose title much use had effaced.

“That is the Bible.  I do not know what the Tee Albare is!”

Frowenfeld darted an aroused glance into the ever-courteous eyes of his visitor, who said without a motion: 

“You di’n’t gave Agricola Fusilier une ouangan, la nuit passe?”

“Sir?”

“Ee was yeh?—­laz nighd?”

“Mr. Fusilier was here last night—­yes.  He had been attacked by an assassin and slightly wounded.  He was accompanied by his nephew, who, I suppose, is your cousin:  he has the same name.”

Frowenfeld, hoping he had changed the subject, concluded with a propitiatory smile, which, however, was not reflected.

“Ma bruzzah,” said the visitor.

“Your brother!”

“Ma whide bruzzah; ah ham nod whide, m’sieu’.”

Joseph said nothing.  He was too much awed to speak; the ejaculation that started toward his lips turned back and rushed into his heart, and it was the quadroon who, after a moment, broke the silence: