The man showed fresh interest.
“An American!” he exclaimed, his face still remaining pale. “I might have guessed it! I have been in America. Americans love justice and liberty.”
“You have hurt yourself, monsieur?” said Frank, as the man continued to press the handkerchief to his wrist.
“It is nothing—a slight scratch. But I received it in a peculiar manner a few moments ago. A woman spoke to me. I attempted to pass on, and she became angry, and struck at me with a hatpin. She barely touched my wrist here—enough to draw blood.”
“I had no idea women were so vicious in Paris—at this early hour of the night.”
“It’s seldom they are. In London it would not be strange. This woman spoke French imperfectly. I do not think she was French. At least, I hope not.”
“She seemed Spanish in her readiness to strike with a weapon,” said Frank. “But you are very pale, monsieur, I fear you are harmed in some other manner.”
“Your solicitation speaks well for you, and is further proof that you are American, not English. An Englishman would not take such interest in a stranger.”
“Perhaps it is a proof of my freshness,” smiled Merry.
“Freshness? What do you mean by that?”