“No,” said Roger; “that’s not he. My friend was not much older than I am, and a gentleman.”
“A gentleman—and a waiter!” laughed the landlady. “But tell me, what was his name?”
“He used to call himself Rogers.”
She shook her head.
“No one of that name was here. I had English, one or two—Bardsley, and Jackson, and Smith; he was a gentleman, but he was not young. He was fifty years, Mr Smith—a good servant. Also there was Monsieur Callow.”
“Callot!” exclaimed Roger, starting at the familiar name. “Was he an Englishman?”
“Surely. C-a-l-l-o-w—Callow. Ah! he was a droll one, was Monsieur Callow, and a gentleman too. I never had a billiard-marker like him. He could play any man, and lose by one point; and he could recite and sing; and oh, he eat so little! Every one laughed at him; but he laughed little himself, and thought himself too good for his fellow-waiters.”
“What was he like?” asked Roger, flushing with excitement.
“A fine young man, with long curly hair, and whiskers and a beard. He was afraid of nothing, tall and strong. Ah me! I have seen him knock a man down at a blow. He was a wild, reckless man, was Monsieur Callow; but a good servant, and oh! a beautiful billiard player. He always knew how to lose a game, and oh! it made my table so popular!”
“Had he any friends in Paris?”