He had only to go to one of his patients, a wine-merchant in the Rue Therese, to find his address in the directory.

It was but a step, and he decided to run the risk; there was need of haste.
Discouraged by all the applications that he had made up to this time, disheartened by betrayed hopes, irritated by rebuffs, he did not deceive himself as to the chances of this last attempt, but at least he would try it, slight though the hope of success might be.
It was an old house where Caffie lived, and had been formerly a private hotel; it was composed of two wings, one on the street, the other on an inside court.

A porte cochere gave access to this court, and under its roof, near the staircase, was the concierge's lodge.

Saniel knocked at the door in vain; it was locked and would not open.

He waited several minutes, and in his nervous impatience walked restlessly up and down the court.