“Look here,” Masters said persuasively, one foot on the footboard, “why not come to my place for a while? Come along, it won’t kill you. A night-hawk like you. My wife has a party of some sort. Dancing, bridge, Parisian-Americans....”
Dancing, bridge, Parisian-Americans! The end of a perfect day....
“It’s another form of septic poisoning,” I pleaded. “Take me to the Westminster, Masters, and let me sleep. And you’d better get a room there as well and spend the night in peace....”
The taxi in front of us bumped and rattled away. Masters muttered wearily: “Well, I will probably have to take a hand if you don’t. Most of ’em dance, but I left three bridge maniacs stranded to come on here. They stay up to all hours, the blighters....”
Smoothly the Renault picked its way among the pits and chasms of the fearful boulevards of outer Paris. “Their last chance of ever being mended,” Masters muttered, “went when the Germans lost the war....”
“All right,” I said sulkily, “I’ll come. Bridge, dancing, Parisian-Americans.... What a monstrous life you lead, Masters. But what about that miracle?”
“Can’t tell,” he muttered. “Can’t tell. Seemed bucked up a bit, of course. Took notice, recognised him, and that’s something. But you can’t tell....”
“She’ll live,” I said.
“I’m glad you’re so certain,” snapped the captain of men. “I’m so little certain that I put that young man on his honour to look round again to-morrow afternoon.”
“On his honour!” I said. “On his honour?”