“Who the deuce are you, anyway?”
A bitter smile passed over the Frenchman’s features.
“You know Pierre Jacquet?” he said.
“Who do you take me to be?”
“Monsieur Cook.”
Enoch hesitated.
“Yes,” he finally said; “that is my name: but I have no recollection of ever having seen you before.”
“So,” said the other, “you have already forgotten Pierre Jacquet?”
“Come to think of it, your features do look quite familiar.”
“My Aimee’s features are more familiar to you now.”