Mr. Mole was especially eager to air his French.
"You speak the language?" asked Jack.
Mr. Mole smiled superciliously at the question.
"Like a native, my dear boy, like a native," he replied.
"That's a good thing," said Jack, tipping the wink to Harry Girdwood; "for you can interpret all round."
France was then going through one of its periodical upsets, and a good deal of unnecessary bother was made along the coast upon the landing of passengers.
Passports were partly dispensed with, but questions were put by fierce officials as to your name and nationality, which all led up to nothing, for they accepted your reply implicitly as truth, and while it inconvenienced the general public, the Royalist, Republican, Orleanist, or whoever might chance to be of the revolutionary party for the time being, could chuckle as he told his fibs and passed on to the forbidden land.
M. le Commissaire confronted Mr. Mole, and barred his passage to interrogate him.
"Pardon, m'sieur, veuillez bien me dire votre nom?"