“All right, my boy,” answered Colville, cheerfully. “I am off to France to-morrow morning.”
The Major shook his head wisely as if in approval of a course of conduct savouring of that prudence which is the better part of valour, glanced at Loo Barebone, and waited in vain for an invitation to take a vacant chair near at hand.
“Still in the south of France, I suppose?”
“Still in the south of France,” replied Colville, turning to Barebone in a final way, which had the effect of dismissing this inquisitive idler.
While they were at dinner another came. He was a raw-boned Scotchman, who spoke in broken English when the waiter was absent and in perfect French when that servitor hovered near.
“I wish I could show my face in Paris,” he said, frankly, “but I can’t. Too much mixed up with Louis Philippe to find favour in the eyes of the Prince President.”
“Why?” asked Colville. “What could you gain by showing in Paris a face which I am sure has the stamp of innocence all over it?”
The Scotchman laughed curtly.
“Gain?” he answered. “Gain? I don’t say I would, but I think I might be able to turn an honest penny out of the approaching events.”
“What events?”