"Toodle-oo—I mean pardon, Monsieur. Je vous demande pardon."
"It's quite all right," he said, smiling. "I shouldn't have been standing so far out."
I drew a case from my pocket.
"At least," I said, "you'll allow me to replace the cigarette"—he took one with a laugh—"and to congratulate you upon your beautiful English."
"Thank you very much. For all that, you knew I was French."
"In another minute," said I, "I shall be uncertain. And I'm sure you'd deceive a Frenchman every time."
"I do frequently. It amuses me to death. Only the other day I had to produce my passport to a merchant at Lyons before he'd believe I was a foreigner."
"A foreigner?" I cried, with bulging eyes. "Then you are English."
"I'm a pure-bred Spaniard," was the reply. "I tell you, it's most diverting. Talk about ringing the changes. I had a great time during the War. I was a perfect mine of information. It wasn't strictly accurate, but Germany didn't know that. As a double-dyed traitor, they found me extremely useful. As a desirable neutral, I cut a great deal of ice. And now I'm loafing. I used to take an interest in the prevention of crime, but I've grown lazy."
For a moment or two we stood talking. Then I asked him to come to our table in the dancing-room. He declined gracefully.