At once there was loud shouting of "Alice! Alice, where art thou? What ho, my Alice!" And one of the boys started singing "The Roses of Picardy."
"Hallo, Yank!" came from another of them, who had just caught sight of Lucien. "What the——have you done with Alice?"
"She'll be back directly," Lucien shouted in response. "I've promised to meet her, so can't stop. S'long!"
He dashed out of the house, and in a moment the darkness had swallowed him up.
§2
Three days later. Half an hour after the break of dawn. In a moderately well-furnished room in the town hall of Lille an elderly man was sitting over a scanty petit-déjeuner. He had an intellectual face, with high-bred features and sparse grey hair carefully brushed across his cranium so as to hide the beginnings of baldness. From time to time he cast eager eyes at the door opposite to where he was sitting or anxious ones at the clock upon the mantel-shelf.
Suddenly his whole face brightened up with eager expectancy. He had just perceived the sound of a harsh voice coming from the next room, and demanding peremptorily to speak with M. de Kervoisin.
A servant entered, but de Kervoisin was too impatient to allow him to speak.
"Number Ten is it?" he queried sharply, and at once added, "Show him in."
A tall, ragged, uncouth, unshaved creature sauntered into the room, with hands in pockets and a chawed cigar stump in the corner of his mouth. Strangely enough the elegant high-bred M. de Kervoisin received this extraordinary visitor with the utmost courtesy. He rose to greet him, shook him warmly by the hand, offered him a chair, coffee, liqueurs, cigarettes. The newcomer declined everything except the armchair, into which he threw himself with obvious satisfaction.