"Pardon, sir," he said. "You are, perhaps, mistaken."
"Oh, no, Pigot," said the stranger, with a little smile, "I am not mistaken. It is you whom I wish to see."
"I do not remember you, sir," said Pigot, looking at him more closely. "Have we met before?"
"Many times."
"Many times!" echoed Pigot, incredulously. "Surely not!" and he looked again to make certain that the stranger was not intoxicated. "Where have we met?"
"We met last," said the stranger, smiling again, "on La Savoie, in the harbour of New York City. To be sure, I was not in this incarnation, but I am sure you will recall the incident."[1]
Pigot drew a deep breath, and his face flushed.
"Ah," he said quietly, after a moment. "I remember. I wish you good evening, M. Crochard."
"One moment," Crochard commanded, his grasp tightening on Pigot's arm. "Forgive my recalling that meeting to your memory. It was indelicate of me. Nevertheless you would do well to listen to what I have to say."
Pigot stopped and turned.