He made no answer, but stood with his eyes staring widely upon me, in which the expression was simply that of innocent surprise.
“Well counterfeited,” thought I.
“You are early abroad,” I continued. “May I ask Monsieur, what business has brought him into the streets at such an hour of the morning?”
The thought had struck me that he might be on his way to the Saint Charles, to make some inquiry; and I recalled my conjecture about his having mislaid Casey’s card.
“What business, Monsieur, but that of my profession?” and as he made this reply, his dark eye flashed with a kindling indignation—which, of course, I regarded as counterfeit.
“Oh!” said I, in a sneering tone, “it appears that you pursue your profession at all hours. I thought the night was your favourite time. I should have fancied that at this hour you would scarcely have found victims.”
“Fool! Who are you? What are you talking of? What means this rudeness?”
“Pooh—pooh! Monsieur Despard; you are not going to get off in that way. Your memory appears short. Perhaps this card will refresh it; or do you repudiate that also?”
“Card!—what card?”
“Look there!—perhaps you will deny having given it?”