The flunkey must present himself in propria persona! in order that his description should be correctly given upon the passport.
So said the French functionary in a tone of cold formality that seemed to forbid expostulation!
Although Maynard knew, that by this time, the noble Magyar had sacrificed his splendid beard, his fine face was too well-known about London to escape recognition in the streets. Especially would it be in danger of identification in the French consular office, King William Street, either by the passport agent himself or the half-score of lynx-eyed spies always hanging around it.
Kossuth’s countenance could never be passed off for the visage of a valet!
But Maynard thought of a way to get over the difficulty. It was suggested by the seedy coat, and hungry look, of the French official.
“It will be very inconvenient,” he said. “I live in the West End, full five miles off. It’s a long way to go, and merely to drag my servant back with me. I’d give a couple of sovereigns to be spared the trouble.”
“I’m sorry,” rejoined the agent, all at once becoming wonderfully civil to the man who seemed to care so little for a couple of sovereigns. “It’s the regulation, as monsieur must know. But—if monsieur—”
The man paused, permitting the “but” to have effect.
“You would greatly oblige by saving me the necessity—”
“Could monsieur give an exact description of his servant?”