“Gently,” said Fitzgerald, catching Maurice by the coat and pulling him down into a chair. “Confound you, could you not have made yourself known to me without yelling my name at the top of your voice?”
“Are you ashamed of it?” asked Maurice, loosing his coat from Fitzgerald's grip.
“I'm afraid of it,” the Englishman admitted, in a lowered voice. “And your manly, resonant tones have cast it abroad. I am here incognito.”
“Who the deuce are you?”
“I am Don Jahpet of Armenia; that is to say that I am a marked man. And now, as you would inelegantly express it, you have put a tag on me. When I left you in Vienna the other day I lied to you. I am sorry. I should have trusted you, only I did not wish you to risk your life. You would have insisted on coming along.”
“Risked my life?” echoed Maurice. “How many times have I not risked it? By the way,” impressed by a sudden thought, “are you the Englishman every one seems to be expecting?”
“Yes.” Fitzgerald knocked his pipe against the railing. “I am the man. Worse luck! Was any one near when you called me by name?”
“Only one of those wooden gendarmes.”
“Only one of those wooden gendarmes!” ironically. “Only one of those dogs who have been at my heels ever since I arrived. And he, having heard, has gone back to his master. Well, since you have started the ball rolling, it is no more than fair that you should see the game to its end.”
“What's it all about?” asked Maurice, his astonishment growing and growing.