“You think you have found the lady?” queried Tom.
“Oh, yais m’sieu; and ze milord vis she.”
“Bravo!” cried Tom, “a big black-bearded, Italian scoundrel!”
“Scoundrail, vot is you call scoundrail, sare?”
“There, there, never mind,” said Viscount Diphoos—“a big, black-bearded Italian!”
The waiter shrugged his shoulders.
“Zere is no beard, m’sieu, and ye zhentlemans is not black. He is vite; oh, oui, yais, he is vite.”
“Another disappointment,” growled Tom.
“M’sieu say, ze billet de banc if I find ze lady. I not know noting at all of the black shentailman.”
They were already in the hall, where they were encountered by one of the garçons of the establishment, whose scruples about introducing them to the private rooms of the gentleman and lady staying there were hushed with a sovereign.