Vandeloup nodded, and lit a cigarette.
‘Well, mind you come in later,’ said Barty, and then he and his friends left the bar, after making Vandeloup promise faithfully he would come.
Gaston sauntered slowly up to the coffee bar, and asked for a cup in his usual musical voice, but when the stout gentleman heard him speak he turned pale and looked up. The thin one had gone off to talk to someone else, so when Vandeloup got his coffee he turned slowly round and looked straight at Meddlechip seated in the chair.
‘Good evening, M. Kestrike,’ he said, quietly.
Meddlechip, whose face was usually red and florid-looking, turned ghastly pale, and sprang to his feet.
‘Octave Braulard!’ he gasped, placing his coffee cup on the counter.
‘At your service,’ said Vandeloup, looking rapidly round to see that no one overheard the name, ‘but here I am Gaston Vandeloup.’
Meddlechip passed his handkerchief over his face and moistened his dry lips with his tongue.
‘How did you get here?’ he asked, in a strangled voice.
‘It’s a long story,’ said M. Vandeloup, putting his coffee cup down and wiping his lips with his handkerchief; ‘suppose we go and have supper somewhere, and I’ll tell you all about it.’