"Always fearful," was his reply.
"You can be very cool: you have no neck in danger."
"I am happy to say my ideas need not be influenced by such paltry considerations. In fact, you are a coward!"
"You are a fool!" I returned.
At this desperate juncture the quarrel fortunately ended by its object coming nearer and in a deep musical voice saying, "Good-evening, friend."
"Good-evening," I answered gruffly.
"You don't appear to know me."
He took a shabby cap from his head and turned his face: a chill ran through me when in the dim street-light I recognized my portrait, moving, speaking, living. A black patch above the brow made me wonder if the wound it concealed passed through the head, as did that in the picture, and his eyes were more brilliant and eager than the painted ones, with their pathetic look changed to one of defiance, as if a devil had taken possession of those beautiful features. For a moment superstition kept me silent, then I said briefly, "I don't know you."
"Allow me to introduce myself—Favart the International. You are delighted to make my acquaintance, no doubt. Calm your transports: time does not admit of them. We start for Belgium to-night."
"Who start?" I asked, now thinking the man a maniac.