`Oh, you agree, do you?' said Richard. `You agree! It's a joke! And you think it funny, no doubt?'

`I think it in very bad taste, sir.'

`And what did the box-keeper say?'

`Oh, she just said that it was the Opera ghost. That's all she said!'

And the inspector grinned. But he soon found that he had made a mistake in grinning, for the words had no sooner left his mouth than M. Richard, from gloomy, became furious.

`Send for the box-keeper!' he shouted. `Send for her! This minute! This minute! And bring her in to me here! And turn all those people out!'

The inspector tried to protest, but Richard closed his mouth with an angry order to hold his tongue. Then, when the wretched man's lips seemed shut for ever, the manager commanded him to open them once more.

`Who is this `Opera ghost?'' he snarled.

But the inspector was by this time incapable of speaking a word. He managed to convey, by a despairing gesture, that he knew nothing about it, or rather that he did not wish to know.

`Have you ever seen him, have you seen the Opera ghost?'

The inspector, by means of a vigorous shake of the head, denied ever having seen the ghost in question.

`Very well!' said M. Richard coldly.

The inspector's eyes started out of his head, as though to ask why the manager had uttered that ominous `Very well!'

`Because I'm going to settle the account of any one who has not seen him!' explained the manager. `As he seems to be everywhere, I can't have people telling me that they see him nowhere. I like people to work for me when I employ them!'

Having said this, M. Richard paid no attention to the inspector and discussed various matters of business with his acting-manager, who had entered the room meanwhile. The inspector thought he could go and was gently - oh, so gently! - sidling toward the door, when M. Richard nailed the man to the floor with a thundering:

`Stay where you are!'

M. Rémy had sent for the box-keeper to the Rue de Provence, close to the Opera, where she was engaged as a porteress. She soon made her appearance.

`What's your name?'

`Mme. Giry. You know me well enough, sir; I'm the mother of little Giry, little Meg, what!'

This was said in so rough and solemn a tone that, for a moment, M. Richard was impressed. He looked at Mme. Giry, in her faded shawl, her worn shoes, her old taffeta dress and dingy bonnet. It was quite evident from the manager's attitude, that he either did not know or could not remember having met Mme. Giry, nor even little Giry, nor even `little Meg!' But Mme. Giry's pride was so great that the celebrated box-keeper imagined that everybody knew her.