“I will give the card,” he said, “but I warn Monsieur it is quite useless. She will not see him.”
The waiter with whom I had seen Herbert Bayliss in altercation was hurrying by me. I caught his arm.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” he protested, “but I must go. The gentleman yonder desires his bill.”
“Don't give it to him,” I whispered, trying hard to think of the French words. “Don't give it to him yet. Keep him where he is for a time.”
I backed the demand with another gold piece, the last in my pocket. The waiter seemed surprised.
“Not give the bill?” he repeated.
“No, not yet.” I did my best to look wicked and knowing—“He and I wish to meet the same young lady and I prefer to be first.”
That was sufficient—in Paris. The waiter bowed low.
“Rest in peace, Monsieur,” he said. “The gentleman shall wait.”
I waited also, for what seemed a long time. Then the bearded one reappeared. He looked surprised but pleased.