The park was beautifully silent, and still stood open to the public. Absorbed in his reflections, therefore, he left the main track and wandered down one of the by-paths, in which stood several wooden benches. Big Ben struck the half-hour. There was just time for another cigar, and Leroy sat down. He was in no humour yet to endure the heat of the theatre, or the chaff and vulgarity of Ada Lester.
He lost count of time, in the pleasant quietude of the spot; and his cigar was burnt down to an inch when, with a half-sigh, he arose to exchange the hard seat amidst the cool trees for a lounge and a crowd of ballet girls at the theatre.
As he picked up his stick, he heard a footstep behind him, and turning, saw an ill-dressed, sullen-looking man. The light from one of the lamps near by shone full on him; and something about the stout, shambling figure, or the dirty evil-browed face, seemed dimly familiar.
To his surprise, the man nodded at him with a sulky frown, and said, in a thick voice:
"Good-evening! Don't remember me, I s'pose?"
"No, I do not," admitted Leroy, as he scanned the bleared, swollen countenance before him.
"Ah! you swells 'as bad memories; I ain't forgotten you, so don't you think it!"
Leroy gazed at him calmly; he thought the man was intoxicated.
"Do you want anything of me?" he asked, as he pulled on his glove.
"That depends," responded the man, moving forward so that he stood right in Adrien's path. "You're Mr. Leroy, ain't you?"