“But my story agitates you, Mademoiselle,” said the typesetter. “You look pale.” And the little man, not regarding the inappropriateness of the act, rubbed his hands.
“Go on,” replied Clara; and she sipped from a tumbler of cold water.
“There’s little more to say, Mademoiselle. Messieurs, the bullies, drew their swords on Monsieur Vance. He showed a revolver, and they fell back. Then he talked to them till they cooled down, gave him three cheers, and went off. I and old Mr. Winslow helped him to find a carriage. We put the wounded man into it. He was driven to the hospital, and his wound attended to. ’T is serious, I believe.”
And Bernard again rubbed his hands.
“And was that the last you saw of Mr. Vance?” asked Clara.
“The last. Shall I help you to some pine-apple, Mademoiselle?”
“No, thank you. I’ve finished my dinner. You will excuse me.”
And she returned to the little room assigned to her use.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOR?
“Sing again the song you sung