Again I tapped my tunic pocket. "Le Balafre" frowned perplexedly.
"I don't even know what you are talking about, my friend," he replied.
"I know what I am talking about," I assured him, speaking more and more huskily. "Listen, then: I am going to take all my notes to my friend, the doctor, and leave them with him, sealed—sealed, you follow me? If I do not come back for them, In a week, shall we say?—he sends them to the police. I do not profit, you think? No.morbleu! but there are some who hang!"
Emptying my third glass, I ordered a fourth and one for my companion.
He checked me.
"No more for me, thank you," he said. "I have—business to attend to.
I will wish you good-night."
"Good-night!" I cried boisterously—"good-night, friend! take heed of my good advice!"
As he went out, the barman brought me my fourth glass of cognac, staring at me doubtfully. Our conversation had been conducted in French, but the tone of my voice had attracted attention.
"Had about enough, ain't you, mate?" he said. "Your ugly pal jibbed!"
"Quite enough!" I replied, in English now of course. "But I've had a stroke of luck to-night and I feel happy. Have one with me. This is a final."
On going out into the street I looked cautiously about me, for I did not expect to reach the house of Dr. Stuart unmolested. I credited "Le Balafre" with sufficient acumen to distrust the genuineness of my intoxication, even if he was unaware of my real identity. I never make the mistake of underestimating an opponent's wit, and whilst acting on the assumption that the scarred man knew me to be forcing his hand, I recognized that whether he believed me to be drunk or sober, Gaston Mas or another, his line of conduct must be the same. He must take it for granted that I actually designed to lodge my notes with Dr. Stuart and endeavour to prevent me doing so.