"Ouf!" cried he, when he had succeeded in cramming his mass of garments sufficiently tight, and had then closed the portmanteau.
Fandor uttered a sigh of satisfaction. This time there could be no doubt about his departure—the thing was certain. He was casting a final glance round when he stopped short in the middle of the passage.
The door-bell had been rung: evidently someone was at the entrance door. Who was it? What was it? Had something arisen which was going to prevent his departure? He went quickly to the door. He opened it to find a soldier on the landing.
"Monsieur Fandor?" he enquired in a gentle, rather husky voice.
"Yes. What is it you want?" replied the journalist crossly.
The soldier came forward a step: then, as if making an effort, he articulated painfully:
"Will you permit me to enter? I am most anxious to speak to you."
Fandor, with a movement of the hand, signified that the importunate stranger might come inside. He observed the man closely. He was quite young, and wore infantry uniform: his stripes were those of a corporal. His hair was brown, and his light eyes were in marked contrast to the much darker tones of his face. A slight moustache shaded his lip.
The corporal followed Fandor into his study, and stood still with an embarrassed air. The journalist considered him an instant, then asked:
"To whom have I the honour of speaking?"