“Is it for me to advise a commissary?”
He rumpled his limp hair desperately as he walked.
“You will not help me! You drive me to distraction!”
He stopped again.
“Are you Riouffe?” he cried.
“You have my passport, monsieur.”
“Yes, yes, I know!” he exclaimed in a frenzy; “but—Mother of God, monsieur! do you not comprehend the post-boy to swear you are not the Englishman’s Riouffe?”
“Confront me, then, with the Englishman.”
“He cannot be found.”
I shrugged my shoulders.