"Do I look as if I had come out of Paris in a balloon?" said John Turner, in answer to my suggestion that he had made use of a method of escape at that time popular. "No, I left by the Creteil gate, without drum or trumpet, or anything more romantic than a laissez-passer signed by Favre. There will be the devil to pay in Paris before another week has passed, and I am not going to disburse."
"In what way will he want paying?" I asked.
"Well," answered John Turner, dragging at the knees of his trousers, which garments invariably incommoded his stout legs, "Well, the Government of National Defence is beginning to show that it has been ill-named. Before long they will be replaced by a Government of National Ruin. The ass in the streets is wanting to bray in the Hôtel de Ville, and will get there before he has finished."
"You are well out of it," said I, "and do not seem to have suffered by the siege."
"Next to being a soldier it is good to be a banker in time of war," said Turner, pulling down his waistcoat, which, indeed, had been in no way affected by the privations currently reported to be the lot of the besieged Parisians.
"What about Miste?" he added, abruptly.
"I have seen his back again, I do not believe the man has a face."
And I told my astute friend of my failure to catch Charles Miste at the Bank of England.
"Truth is," commented the banker, "that Monsieur Miste is an uncommonly smart rogue. You must be careful—when he does show you his face, have a care. And if you take my advice you will leave this little business to the men who know what they are about. It is not every one who knows the way to tackle a fellow carrying a loaded revolver. By the way, do you carry such a thing yourself?"
"Never had one in my life."