“Ees monsieur ill?” asked Jacques.
“No, Jacques. Just out of sorts—worried,” said Bert. “I’m walking it out of him.... Mighty glad to have met you, old man.”
Kendall turned to Jacques. “What you say about Andree—is it true? You are sure?...”
“Certainement.”
“Of course,” Ken answered, slowly. “I didn’t doubt it.... It sounded like the truth.... I thank you, Jacques. Some day I’ll thank you better.” He held out his hand. “Good night, Jacques.”
He turned away, and Bert, after shaking hands with the exuberant little Frenchman, followed. Jacques stood for a moment staring after them, then waved his cane in the air for no purpose whatever, and said, perplexedly, “Tous les Américains sont fous....”
Ken walked rapidly, as one in haste to reach a definite destination; he did not speak. Bert, keeping pace with him, watched his friend’s face covertly; it was a gray mask without expression, a mask that seemed to tell a tale of years double that which made the total of Kendall’s life.
They diagonaled across the Place Marengo and at a more acute angle through the Place du Louvre to the Quai du Louvre and crossed the Pont Neuf, which carried them over the broader arm of the Seine, the upper point of the Cité, where to their left arose the dark mass of the Palais de Justice, and across the narrower branch of the river to the Quai des Augustins. Presently the Place St.-Michel opened before them, and, as Kendall turned into it Bert stopped to demand where they were going.
“To find her,” said Kendall.
Bert nodded. “I thought so.”