"Lucky fellow!" he exclaimed in the same ambiguous tone. "And now, ta-ta—a thousand thanks."
He extended his hand, but George kept his beneath the clothes. The chatterbox turned towards the door.
"Your cognac is exquisite. I'll take another petit verre."
He drank, and then went away. George, in his bed, could relish the poison at his leisure.
CHAPTER III.
The second anniversary fell on the second of April.
"This time," said Hippolyte, "we will celebrate it away from Rome. We must pass a great week of love; all by ourselves, no matter where, but not here."
"Do you remember the first anniversary," asked George, "that of last year?"
"Yes, I remember."
"It was a Sunday, Easter Sunday. And I came to your rooms at ten o'clock in the morning. And you wore that little English jacket that pleased me so. You had brought your prayer-book."