“Mr. Courvoisier—your name is Courvoisier, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Will you please tell me how much money you have spent for me to-day?”
“How much money?” he asked, looking at me with a provoking smile.
The train was rumbling slowly along, the night darkening down. We sat by an open window, and I looked through it at the gray, Dutch-like landscape, the falling dusk, the poplars that seemed sedately marching along with us.
“Why do you want to know how much?” he demanded.
“Because I shall want to pay you, of course, when I get my purse,” said I. “And if you will kindly tell me your address, too—but how much money did you spend?”
He looked at me, seemed about to laugh off the question, and then said:
“I believe it was about three thalers ten groschen, but I am not at all sure. I can not tell till I do my accounts.”