Mere chance willed that as Gaspard on Saturday evening was going home, having done a hard day's work at organising a trade procession for the next day, he should fall in with Benham. He stopped to speak, feeling an interest in all that concerned the man; and Benham, radiant and effusive from the process of "moistening his luck," would not be satisfied till Gaspard had agreed to sup with him and at his charges.
"Oh, if you like to do a good deed to an enemy," laughed the Frenchman, letting the other seize him by the arm and lead him off; and he thought to himself that he might as well spare so liberal a host. Might there not be other suppers in the future? Dead men, if they told no tales, paid for no suppers either.
After the meal they had another bottle of wine, and Benham called for a pack of cards. François won, and politely apologised.
"It is too bad of me," he said, "after your hospitality, mon cher."
"Oh, five pound won't hurt me, or ten either," cried Benham, draining his glass.
"No? Happy man!"
"I know where money comes from," continued Benham, with a wink.
"Ah, a man who knows what you do!" retorted Gaspard. "Have you forgotten telling me—you know—about our good Medland?"
"Did I tell you? Well, I had forgotten. Who cares! It's true—every word."