He viewed with indecision the broad back of the interloper, who at that moment turned his head. At the sight of that bronzed profile Maurice gave an exclamation of surprise and delight. He stepped forward and dropped his hand on the stranger's shoulder.
“John Fitzgerald, or henceforth garlic shall be my salad!” he cried in loud, exultant tones.
CHAPTER VII. SOME DIALOGUE, A SPRAINED ANKLE, AND SOME SOLDIERS
The stranger returned Maurice's salute with open-mouthed dismay; the monocle fell from his eye, he grasped the table with one hand and pushed back the chair with the other, while Maurice heard the name of an exceedingly warm place.
The gendarme, who was leaning against the pillar, straightened, opened his jaws, snapped them, and hurried off.
“Maurice—Maurice Carewe?” said the bewildered Englishman.
“No one else, though I must say you do not seem very glad to see me,” Maurice answered, conscious that he was all things but welcome.
“Hang you, I'm not!” incogitantly.
“Go to the devil, then!” cried Maurice, hotly.