“Hah!” The Chief thought he understood. “Did you feel this drowsiness before leaving Laroche?”
“No, monsieur, I did not. Certainly not. I was fresh till then—quite fresh.”
“Hum; exactly; I see;” and the little Chief jumped to his feet and ran round to where the porter stood sheepishly, and sniffed and smelt at him.
“Yes, yes.” Sniff, sniff, sniff, the little man danced round and round him, then took hold of the porter’s head with one hand, and with the other turned down his lower eyelid so as to expose the eyeball, sniffed a little more, and then resumed his seat.
“Exactly. And now, where is your train card?”
“Pardon, monsieur, I cannot find it.”
“That is absurd. Where do you keep it? Look again—search—I must have it.”
The porter shook his head hopelessly.
“It is gone, monsieur, and my pocket-book.”
“But your papers, the tickets—”