“You must have an object in wishing to be known by a name other than your own,” said Merriwell.
“I have.”
Wynne looked around. The throngs were weaving along the broad walks, and no one seemed to pay the least attention to the two boys and the young man at the corner table in front of the Café de la Paix. The Americans at the table near at hand were talking and laughing loudly. The Frenchmen at the other tables were sipping their drinks, smoking their cigars, and watching the people who were passing. They talked animatedly among themselves, with expressive gestures and shrugs, but did not lift their voices harshly after the manner of the wine-flushed Americans.
All the crowd seemed filled with a feeling of jollity. Men and women saluted each other gayly. It was the night after the Grand Prix, and everybody wished to be considered a winner at the races. The pompous gentlemen of the boulevards who cut their white goatees as do military men of the Second Empire, hoping that the ruddiness of their cheeks, which is due to excessive wine-drinking, will be attributed to the suns of Tunis or Algiers, were much less pompous than usual. Old men wore a boyish air, and boys were more boyish than their wont.
Seeing no one was observing them, Wynne said, speaking in a low tone:
“I have been sent here by my paper on a rather delicate mission.”
Although Frank’s curiosity was aroused, he asked no questions, simply raising his eyebrows.
“I think I can trust you,” said the young correspondent. “I am not in the habit of talking much about my business, but I have a premonition that I am going to get into trouble, and I feel a strong desire to confide in some one.”
“Anything you tell us in confidence will be regarded as sacred, Mr. Wynne,” declared Frank.
“That’s right, b’gosh!” vigorously nodded Ephraim.