He was sauntering onward by the side of this urbane and garrulous stranger, when, like a whisper, the thought came, “Take care!”
David Arden stopped short.
“Eh, bien?” said his polite companion, stopping simultaneously, and staring in his face a little grimly.
“On reflection, Monsieur, it is so late, that I fear I should hardly reach my hotel in time if I were to accept your agreeable invitation, and letters probably await me, which I should, at least, read to-night.”
“Surely Monsieur will not disappoint me—surely Monsieur is not going to treat me so oddly?” expostulated Monsieur St. Ange.
“Good-night, Sir. Farewell!” said David Arden, raising his hat as he turned to go.
There intervened not two yards between them, and the polite Monsieur St. Ange makes a stride after him, and extends his hand—whether there is a weapon in it, I know not; but he exclaims fiercely,—
“Ha! robber! my purse!”
Fortunately, perhaps, at that moment, from a lane only a few yards away, emerge two gendarmes, and Monsieur St. Ange exclaims, “Ah, Monsieur, mille pardons! Here it is! All safe, Monsieur. Pray excuse my mistake as frankly as I have excused yours. Adieu!”
Monsieur St. Ange raises his hat, shrugs, smiles, and withdrew.