“Drunk!” he replied, with a fine imitation of a drunkard’s hoarse tones, “never such a thing! I’m merry, just merry—as we all are. Here, just look here if I’m drunk; my hand don’t shake.”
Moche picked up a full glass, solemnly lifted it from the table, rounding his elbow in a majestic gesture. Doubtless his condition baulked his praiseworthy efforts, for the glass after some frantic oscillations suddenly turned topsy turvy, spilling the wine over the carpet.
The accident provoked an uproarious fit of wild mirth from Ascott: “Oh! there is no doubt about it, the old man is awfully drunk.” And now the young Englishman’s cup of happiness was filled to the brim, as he heard the other declare:
“Why, yes, I don’t feel very well, my head’s going round a bit. With your leave, I’ll go out and breathe the fresh air a minute; but none of your nonsense now whilst I’m away! Ascott, I count on your good behaviour, I entrust that dear, good, virtuous child to your care”—and Père Moche disappeared.
Scarcely was he out of the room before Ascott shook off his intoxication and managed to rise from the divan on which he sprawled. Stepping to the door of the private room, he shot the bolt with an unsteady hand; then, regardless of Nini’s hypocritical prayers and protests, he went to the switch and turned off the electric current.
“Oh! sir, sir!” shrilled the girl in a terrified voice, “what are you doing?... oh!... for God’s sake, let me be ... mother!”
Meantime, no sooner was Moche out in the passage leading to the private rooms than he recovered all his coolness and self-possession, as if by a miracle. The old scamp was much too astute to have let himself get tipsy; it was simply a piece of play-acting he had been at for the benefit of his host, a comedy that did not in the least take in his confidante and accomplice, Nini Guinon, though it completely bamboozled the young Englishman. With no small satisfaction Moche noted—as indeed the landlord had led him to expect when he came that morning to order the little dinner—that the adjoining rooms were unoccupied. After that he made sure that no one could spy on them from the floor below.
Everything was as it should be. The host of the Silver Goblet was used to these little private entertainments and knew it was not the proper thing to disturb those attending them under any circumstances. No doubt, somewhere about one o’clock in the morning, a waiter would come up to announce that it was time to be leaving, as the house was going to be shut up, but till that hour guests could count implicitly on the most absolute peace and quietness.
Next, slipping down the back stairs leading direct from the entresol into the street, Moche was quickly in the open air. Advancing a few paces along the sidewalk, he whistled and then stood listening. A second later a succession of notes became audible, similar to those formed by the old man’s lips; again advancing, he came upon two fellows lurking in a doorway. It was the “Gasman” and “Bull’s-eye,” and not far off stood an automobile, to which the old man pointed with the question: “It’s yours, that contraption yonder?”
“Yes,” replied the “Gasman,” “that’s to say it’s a pal’s machine; we chose him because he’s as silent as the tomb, and don’t have no eyes in the back of his head; he’ll do what he’s told—asks three louis for his night.”