When he came in sight of No.

12 the door opened, and, unwilling to be seen, he stole into the portico of the next house, which was dark and uninhabited, and waited there for a moment.
He could hear Saul Jacobi's voice distinctly, smooth and unctuous as usual, and Leah's deep, flute-like tones chiming in.

Somebody, a young man he guessed, was answering her.

"You will not be late on Monday.

I always like to be in good time for a new piece." "That is so like a woman," interrupted her brother in a jeering voice.
"Don't attend to her, old fellow; we have seats in the stalls, and you can please yourself." "You bet, I always do that!" was the answer, in a slightly nasal tone.
"Ta-ta, Jacobi;" and then a muscular, active-looking young man ran down the steps.