THE AMERICAN
waited a little longer. At last her occasion arrived, and she made her move with her eyes open. I'm very sure she had no innocence to lose, but she had all her respectability. Dubious little damsel as you thought her she had kept a firm hold of that; nothing could be proved against her, and she was determined not to let her reputation go till she had got her equivalent. About her equivalent she had high ideas. Apparently her requirements have been met. Well, they've been met in a superior form. The form's fifty years old, baldheaded and deaf, but he's very easy about money.
"And where in the world," asked Newman, "did you pick up this valuable information?"
"In animated conversation. Remember my frivolous habits. Conversation—and this time not criminal!—with a young woman engaged in the humble trade of glove-cleaner who keeps a small shop in the Rue Saint-Roch. M. Nioche lives in the same house, up six pairs of stairs, across the court in and out of whose ill-swept doorway Miss Noémie has been flitting for the last five years. The little glove-cleaner was an old acquaintance; she used to be the friend of a friend of mine—the foolish friend of a foolish friend—who has married and given up friendship. I often saw her in his society. As soon as I made her out behind her clear little window-pane I recollected her. I had on a spotlessly fresh pair of gloves, but I went in and held up my hands and said to her: 'Dear mademoiselle, what will you ask me for cleaning these?' 'Dear Count,' she answered immediately, 'I'll clean them for you for nothing.'
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