"Mr Frowenfeld,"--he struck the stone with his cane,--"this stone is Bras-Coupé--we cast it aside because it turns the edge of our tools."
He laughed. He had laughed to-night more than was comfortable to a man of Frowenfeld's quiet mind.
As the apothecary thrust his shopkey into the lock and so paused to hear his companion, who had begun again to speak, he wondered what it could be--for M. Grandissime had not disclosed it--that induced such a man as he to roam aimlessly, as it seemed, in deserted streets at such chill and dangerous hours. "What does he want with me?" The thought was so natural that it was no miracle the Creole read it.
"Well," said he, smiling and taking an attitude, "you are a great man for causes, Mr. Frowenfeld; but me, I am for results, ha, ha! You may ponder the philosophy of Bras-Coupé in your study, but I have got to get rid of his results, me. You know them."
"You tell me it revived a war where you had made a peace," said Frowenfeld.
"Yes--yes--that is his results; but good night, Mr. Frowenfeld."
"Good night, sir."