“As you wish,” replied Minetti.
Fernet paid for two dinners, and they reached for their hats.
“Where are you going?” asked Berthe, as she opened the door.
Fernet shrugged. “I am in his hands,” he answered, sweeping his arm toward Minetti.
“You mean you will be,” muttered the hunchback, in an undertone.
Fernet heard him distinctly.
“Perhaps I had better leave him while there is yet time!” flashed through his mind. But the next instant he thought, contemptuously: “What harm can he do me? Why, his wrist is no bigger than a pullet’s wing. Bah! You are a fool, André Fernet!”
They stepped out into the street. A languorous note was in the air; the usual cool wind from the sea had not risen. A waning moon silvered the roof-tops, making a pretense of hiding its face in the thin line of smoke above Telegraph Hill.
The hunchback led the way, trotting along in a fashion almost Oriental. At the end of the second block he turned abruptly into a wine-shop; Fernet followed. They found seats in a far corner, away from the billiard-tables. A waiter came forward. They gave their orders.