“I cannot stay longer,” said he; “I am not feeling well; I will be here to-morrow;” and he went away with his head bent down on his chest.
The workmen noticed his strange and unusual manner.
“He does not look very bright,” remarked one to his comrade. “Since his illness he has not been the same man. I think he must have had some terrible shock.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
AN ARTFUL TRICK.
Andre had removed his coat and donned his blouse, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his shoulders. “I must get to business,” murmured he, “to make up for lost time.” He set to work with great vigor, but had hardly got into the swing, when a lad came actively up the ladder and told him that a gentleman wished to see him, “and a real swell, too,” added the boy. Andre was a good deal put out at being disturbed, but when he reached the street and saw that it was M. de Breulh-Faverlay who was waiting for him, his ill-humor disappeared like chaff before the wind.
“Ah, this is really kind of you,” cried he; for he could never forget the debt of gratitude he owed to the gentleman. “A thousand thanks for remembering me. Excuse my not shaking hands, but see;” and he exhibited his palms all white with plaster. As he did so the smile died away on his lips, for he caught sight of his friend’s face.
“What is the matter?” exclaimed he, anxiously. “Is Sabine worse? Has she had a relapse?”
De Breulh shook his head, but the expression of his face clearly said,—