“Monsieur does not drink,” growled Durant. “Is it an insult he would mean to give M. Bornier?”
“By no means,” smiled Frank, as if he were quite at his ease. “I never drink. I have done everything else here, as is the custom, and no one can be offended because I decline to do what I have never done.”
Durant looked little satisfied, and was on the point of saying something more when Bornier hastily cut in:
“The young American is quite right to decline to drink if it is not his custom. As no offense is meant, none shall be taken.”
He bowed very low to the boy, who was very much relieved.
Durant scowled blackly, plainly in a very bad mood.
Bornier began to show the boy the pictures, explaining about each as they passed. While this was in progress, Frank caught Wynne looking at him fairly, and the young newspaper man placed a finger on his lips.
It was a signal for silence, and it gave Frank Merriwell a thrill, for something about it seemed to plainly say, “Danger.”
Frank pretended to be greatly interested in the pictures, but he was acutely alive to all that was taking place in the room.
One by one, the women were going out, and soon all had left. In a corner, over his bottle of poor red wine, an unshaven, ragged fellow began to sing a song. It was a doleful thing, and it made Frank’s blood cold.