“Because I suffered there.”
He indicated a weedy young Alsatian across the room, a depressed and pimply creature in a waiter’s jacket and apron, who was shambling from table to table and collecting used glasses and saucers.
“You see that omnibus yonder? What he is to-day, that was I in mine—omnibus, scullion, valet-de-chambre, butt and scapegoat-in-general to the establishment, scavenger of food that no one else would eat.... I suffered there, at Troyon’s.”
“You, sir?” Karslake exclaimed in astonishment. “Whoever would have thought that you ... How did you escape?”
“It occurred to me, one day, I was less than half alive and never would be better while I stayed on in that servitude. So I walked out—into life.”
“I wish you’d tell me, sir,” Karslake ventured, eagerly.
“Some day, perhaps, when I get back. But now”—he looked at his watch—“I’ve got just time enough to taxi to my hotel, pack, and catch the boat train.”
“Don’t wait for me,” Karslake suggested, signalling the waiter.
“Perhaps it would be as well if I didn’t.”
They shook hands, and the older man got up, secured his hat and stick, and started out toward the door, moving leisurely, still looking about him with the narrowed eyes and smile of reminiscence.