I beckoned to Marco, and sent him to the
wine-shop to find Pietro. When he came (Pietro was agent for the
lodging-rooms above, and let them out to swell painters--we couldn't
afford them--fifty lira a week, some of them more) I said:
"'Pietro, did you see the chap that went upstairs a few moments ago?'
"'Yes, signore.'
"'Do you know who he is?'
"'Yes, he is one of my gentlemen. He has the top floor--the one that
Signore Almadi used to live in. The Signore Almadi is gone away.'
"'How long has he been here?'
"'About a month.'
"'Is he a painter?
"'No, I don't think so.'
"'What is he, then?'
"'Ah, Signore, who can tell? At first his letters were sent to me--now
he gets them himself. The last were from Monte Carlo, from the
Hotel--Hotel--I forget the name. But why does the Signore want to know?
He pays the rent on the day--that is much better.'
"'Where does he come from?'
"Pietro shrugged his shoulders.
"'That will do, Pietro.'
"There was evidently nothing to be gotten out of him.
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