a yawn, signifying by a peremptory wave of the hand his refusal to hear another word.
“You are mad, John; you know perfectly well I never receive visitors at this hour of the day.”
“Excuse me, sir, but it seems it is important.”
“Nothing is important enough to wake me up for,” declared Ascott.
But the servant went on with extraordinary and unprecedented persistency.
“It is the old fellow who sometimes comes to see you, sir, the business agent, your lawyer, sir, old M. Moche. I explained you could not see him, sir, but he insisted all the same, he almost forced me to come up here ... please excuse me, sir, but ...”
His master was furious. Calling up, not without difficulty, all the will power he possessed, all the energy he was capable of that morning, he vociferated passionately:
“I will not see him and if the old chap insists, chuck him out of the house!”
Ascott had hardly uttered the words before a grave and dignified voice was heard in the anteroom adjoining the bed-chamber, and at the same moment there issued from the shadows, pushing his way into the room, someone whose identity could admit of no mistake even to the Englishman’s sleepy eyes. It was in fact M. Moche coming in, in defiance of all prohibition. Dressed, as always, in his long, black frock-coat, holding in his hand his tall hat with the dulled, dented surface, M. Moche showed dirtier and still more repulsive-looking in the broad light of day than by candlelight, but also more solemn and more majestic.
The old man bowed slightly to Ascott, who sat silent and impassive on his bed.