The man's teeth flashed and crunched down on the jagged edge of the glass. There was a terrific crackling noise. He flourished the bottle-end again.
“My God, he's eating it,” cried Henslowe, roaring with laughter, “and you're afraid to go to Paris.”
An engine rumbled into the station, with a great hiss of escaping steam.
“Gee, that's the Paris train! Tiens!” He pressed the franc into the man's dirt-crusted hand.
“Come along, Andrews.”
As they left the buvette they heard again the crunching crackling noise as the man bit another piece off the bottle.
Andrews followed Henslowe across the steam-filled platform to the door of a first-class carriage. They climbed in. Henslowe immediately pulled down the black cloth over the half globe of the light. The compartment was empty. He threw himself down with a sigh of comfort on the soft buff-colored cushions of the seat.
“But what on earth?” stammered Andrews.
“M'en fous, c'est mon metier,” interrupted Henslowe.
The train pulled out of the station.