Scarcely a dozen men sat at the tables. In one corner Maurice saw what appeared to be a man asleep on his arms, which were extended the width of the table. It was the cosiest corner in the hall, and Maurice decided to establish himself at the other side of the table, despite the present incumbent. Noiselessly he crossed the floor and sat down. The light was at his back, leaving his face in the shadow, but shone squarely on the sleeper's head.
“I do not envy his headache when he wakes up,” thought Maurice. He had detected the vinous odor of the sleeper's breath. “These headaches, while they last, are bad things. I know; I've had 'em. I wonder,” lifting the stein and draining it, “who the duffer was who said that getting drunk was fun? His name has slipped my memory; no matter.” He set down the stein and banged the lid.
The sleeper stirred. “Rich,” he murmured; “rich, rich! I'm rich! A hundred thousand crowns!”
“My friend, I'm not in the position to dispute with you on that subject,” said Maurice, smiling. He rapped the stein again.
The sleeper raised his head and stared stupidly,
“Rich, aye, rich!” He was still in half a dream. “Rich, I say!”
“Hang it, I'm not arguing on that,” Maurice laughed.
The other swung upright at this, his round, oily face sodden, his black eyes blinking. He threw off the stupor when he saw that it was a man and not the shadow of one.
“Who the devil are you?” he asked, thickly.
Maurice seldom forgot a face. He recognized this one. “Oho!” he said, “so it's you, eh? I did not expect to meet you. Happily I had you in mind. You are not employed at present as a porter at the Grand Hotel? So it is you, my messenger!”