“You are an interpreter, Sir?” he queried, speaking very rapidly and in sharp commanding tones.
“At your service,” I replied.
“My name is Ernest Berty. I want you to come with me at once to my house. I require your services as intermediary between myself and some men who have come to see me on business. These men whom I wish you to see are Russians,” he added, I fancied as an afterthought, “but they speak English fluently.”
I suppose that I looked just as I felt—somewhat dubious owing to the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, not to speak of the abominable weather, for he continued with marked impatience:
“It is imperative that you should come at once. Though my house is at some little distance from here, I have a chaise outside which will also bring you back, and,” he added significantly, “I will pay you whatever you demand.”
“It is very late,” I demurred, “the weather—”
“Your fee, man!” he broke in roughly, “and let’s get on!”
“Five hundred francs,” I said at a venture.
“Come!” was his curt reply. “I will give you the money as we drive along.”
I wished I had made it a thousand; apparently my services were worth a great deal to him. However, I picked up my mantle and my hat, and within a few seconds was ready to go. I shouted up to Mme. Bournon that I would not be home for a couple of hours, but that as I had my key I need not disturb her when I returned.