The first step
in this, obviously, was to know more about Madame Le Maitre and O'Shea.
The lady he dared not question; the man he questioned with persistency
and with what art he could command.
It was one night, not a week after his advent, that he had so far come
to terms with O'Shea that he sat by the stove in the latter's house, and
did what he could to keep up conversation with little aid from his host.
O'Shea sat on one wooden chair, with his stockinged feet crossed upon
another, and his legs forming a bridge between. He was smoking, and in
the lamplight his smooth, queer face looked like a brown apple that had
begun to shrivel--just begun, for O'Shea was not old, and only a little
wrinkled.
His wife came often into the room, and stood looking with interest at
Caius. She was a fair woman, with a broad tranquil face and much light
hair that was brushed smoothly.
Caius talked of the weather, for the snow was falling. Then, after
awhile:
"By the way, O'Shea, _who_ is Madame Le Maitre?"
The other had not spoken for a long time; now he took his clay pipe out
of his mouth, and answered promptly:
"An angel from heaven."
"Ah, yes; that, of course."
Caius stroked his moustache with the action habitual to drawing-room
gallantry; then, instead of persisting, he formed his question a little
differently:
"Who is Mr.
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