Not even the concierge had seen the man´s face, either when he was coming or going out. In winter he buried his chin in one of those red scarves that high-class coachmen wear while they are waiting for their masters to leave the theatre; in summer he was always blowing his nose just at the moment when he might have been seen going in front of the lodge. It must be said that, contrary to all usual practice, this inhabitant was not being spied on by anone and that the rumour going around that his alias disguised a most eminent personage - and one who could pull lots of strings - had led people to respect the mystery of his coming and goings.
I wonder who that guy is ... ;)
ETA: Never mind. It´s not the count.