"Fortunately," M. Brisson muttered to himself, "the fire is laid!"
Then, having held his collar to the light and decided that it was clean enough, he buttoned it about his neck, attached his shiny ready-made tie, donned his little white coat, picked up the candle and left the room. Passing along the corridor to the front of the house, he tapped at a door.
"Who is there?" called a rough voice.
"Your coffee will be ready in twenty minutes, sir," said Brisson.
"Very well; and thank you," answered the voice, and Brisson descended to the dining-room, opened the shutters, lighted the lamp, and spread the cloth.
He was contemplating his handiwork, his head to one side, when heavy steps sounded on the stair, and a moment later two men entered. They were both of middle-age, somewhat stocky and heavily-built, their hair close-cropped, their faces smooth-shaven and deeply tanned. They had, indeed, that indurated look which only years of exposure to wind and rain can give, except that their upper lips were some shades lighter than the remainder of the face, betraying the fact that they had, until recently, been protected by a moustache. They were dressed in somewhat shabby tweed walking-suits, and wore heavy well-worn shoes. At this moment, each carried in his hand a little knapsack.
M. Brisson greeted them bent double, hoped that they had slept well, foretold a fine day, and assured them that coffee would be ready in a moment.
"Our bags are in our room, properly labelled," said one of them, finding his words with apparent difficulty and accenting them most queerly. "They are to go to Nice, where we will claim them."
"I will attend to it. And you, sirs?" asked Brisson.
"It is our intention to walk."