"I had better write it out for you."
"No. If things go wrong with me, I don't want your name and address discovered in my pockets. Tell it to me; I'll remember."
Warner looked at him rather gravely for a moment, then:
"James Warner is my name. I'm a painter. My present address is La Pêche d'Or at Saïs."
"By any chance," asked Halkett, "are you the military painter, James Warner, whose pictures we know very well in England?"
"I don't know how well my pictures are known in England. I usually paint military subjects."
"I knew you were right!" exclaimed Halkett. "Any man who paints the way you paint must be right! Fancy my actually knowing the man who did 'Lights Out' and 'The Last Salute'!"
Warner laughed, coloring a little.
"Did you really like those pictures?"
"Everybody liked them. I fancy every officer in our army owns a colored print of one or more of your pictures. And to think I should run across you in this God-forsaken French town! And to think it should be you who is willing to stand by me at this pinch! Well—I judged you rightly, you see."