“It was the other man!” said I, starting up with a strange kind of breathless terror upon me. “He threw it on the ground—I saw him do it—where is he gone? what has become of him?”
“The other man! What other man?” said Monsieur Maurice. “My little Gretchen, you are dreaming.”
“No, no, I am not dreaming. There was another man—a brown man! Hartmann saw him—”
“A brown man!” echoed Monsieur Maurice. Then catching sight of Hartmann's face, he pushed his chair back, looked at him steadily and sternly; and said, with a sudden change of voice and manner:—
“There is something wrong here. What does it mean? You saw a man—both of you? What was he like?”
“A brown man,” I said again. “A brown man with bright eyes.”
“And you?” said Monsieur Maurice, turning to Hartmann.
“I—I thought I saw something,” stammered the attendant, with a violent effort at composure. “But it was nothing.”
Monsieur Maurice looked at him as if he would look him through; got up, still looking at him; went to the sideboard, and, still looking at him, filled another tumbler with Seltzer-water.
“Drink that,” he said, very quietly.