Monsieur Dupont squeezed himself into the narrow hall with difficulty.
"I possess the gift of patience," he claimed modestly. "In London it is of great value."
In the small library he looked about him with surprise. The plain, almost scanty furniture of Tranter's house evidently did not accord with his expectations of the residence of an English Privy Councillor. Monsieur Dupont sat down on a well-worn leather couch, and stared, somewhat blankly, at the rows of dull, monotonous bindings in the simple mahogany bookcases.
He placed the drink Tranter mixed for him on a small table by his side, accepted a cigar, and puffed at it serenely. And in that position, Monsieur Victorien Dupont presented a pleasing picture of elephantine geniality. He was so large that his presence seemed to fill half the room. His great face was one tremendous smile. His eyes, though capable of a disconcertingly direct gaze, were clear and even childlike. His English was perfect, his evening-dress faultless, and, though obviously a bon-viveur, he was also unmistakably a man with a purpose.
"And what has brought you to London?" Tranter asked, sitting opposite to him.
"My friend," said Monsieur Dupont, "I am here with a remarkable object. I have come to use the eyes the good God has given me. And to do so I beg the assistance of the great position the good God has given you."
"I hope," Tranter returned, "that what you require will enable me to make some sort of return to the man who saved my life."
Monsieur Dupont waved his hands in a gigantic gesture.
"To restore to the world one of its great men—it was a privilege for which I, myself, should pay! The service I ask of you is small."
"You have but to name it," said the Privy Councillor.