“I will tell you,” she answered. “Forget for a moment the Paris that you know, and remember the Paris of the tourist.”
“Painful,” he answered; “but it is done.”
“The Hôtel de Luxe!”
“I know it well.”
“There are a race of creatures there, small, parasitical insects, who hang about the hall and the boulevard outside—guides they call themselves.”
“‘Show you something altogether new this evening, Captain,’” he quoted. “Yes; I know them.”
“There is, or was, one,” she continued, “who goes by the name of Thomas Johnson. He is undersized; he has red cheeks, and puffy brown eyes. He used to wear a glazed black hat, and he speaks every language without an accent.”
“I should know the beast anywhere,” he declared.
“Find out if he is there still. Let him take you out. Don’t lose sight of him—and write to me.”