"Show me your medal, Archibald Webster."
The American took the gold medal from his waistcoat pocket. It was exactly like the one Dorothy possessed—the inscription, the size, the dull color were the same. Dorothy showed it to Maître Delarue, then gave it back to the American, and went on with her questioning:
"Number two—English, aren't you?"
"George Errington, of London."
"Tell us what you know, George Errington, of London."
The Englishman shook his pipe, emptied it, and answered in equally good French.
"I know no more. An orphan from birth, I received the medal three days ago from the hands of my guardian, my father's brother. He told me that, according to my father, it was a matter of collecting a bequest, and according to himself, there was nothing in it, but I ought to obey the summons."
"You were right to obey it, George Errington. Show me your medal. Right: you're in order.... Number three—a Russian, doubtless?"
The man in the soldier's cap understood; but he did not speak French. He smiled his large smile and gave her a scrap of paper of doubtful cleanliness, on which was written: "Kourobelef, French war, Salonica. War with Wrangel."
"The medal?" said Dorothy. "Right. You're one of us. And the medal of number four—the gentleman from Italy?"