"Then listen to me," the Vicomte said slowly. "I speak as one man of honor to another. Do not play cards in this club!"
"Not play cards? Why not?" Duncombe asked, amazed.
"You can take my advice or leave it," the Vicomte answered calmly. "I have no explanation to offer you. If you chose to repeat my remark you would place me in an exceedingly awkward position. You see, I rely upon you as a man of honor."
"I am only too much obliged to you for the hint," Duncombe declared. "But this club—the Cercle Anglais——"
"The club is all right," the Vicomte admitted calmly. "Unfortunately there is no place in Paris which would be entirely safe for you. You have the misfortune, you see, to be in opposition to some of my friends, who have really unlimited opportunities for making things disagreeable for you. Now I am beginning to talk, and it is very foolish of me. Why don't you leave Paris, Sir George?"
"Why should I?" Duncombe asked, a little sharply. "I break no laws here, I wrong no one. I am here on my own business, and I only ask to be let alone."
The Vicomte regarded him as one might look at a spoilt child whom it was yet advisable to humor.
"Ah," he said, "they will not let you alone. You are so obstinate, like all your country-people, or you would recognize it without my risking so much by speaking. You will have to leave Paris, and very soon. It is so easily to be managed. A dispute at cards here—you would certainly be in the wrong, and an ugly scandal if you were not away in twenty-four hours. It is one method of a thousand."
"You know so much," Duncombe said. "I have no doubt that you know the one thing which I would give years of my life to be satisfied about."
The boy's dark eyes were fixed steadily upon his.