“And you cannot fly?”
“No; I leave zat to your cocksparrow de Londres,” said Leronde, trying to conceal his wonder and dread by a show of hilarity.
“That’s right, then. You sit down there and smoke cigarettes till I come back.”
“But, my friend, ze engagement, ze meeting viz ze amis of ze Conte. What go you to do?”
“See Armstrong Dale, and bring him to his senses. If I can’t—go and break the Count’s neck.”
“But, mon cher Pacey!” cried Leronde, “l’honneur?”
“Hang honour!” roared his friend. “I’m going in for common-sense;” and before the Frenchman could arrest him, the door was banged to, locked, the key removed, and steps were heard on the landing; then the sitting-room door was locked, and, with his face full of perplexity, Leronde lit a fresh cigarette.
“Faith of a man, these English,” he said, “zey are mad, as Shakespeare did say about Hamlet, and I am sure, if zey do shave Shoe Pacey head, zey will find ze big crack right across him.”