"'O Choicest of the Fifty-seven Varieties,' I says, 'deign to give me your honourable hand for the next gladiatorial jazz.'
"The Bull-fighter looked black, but she put her little hand in mine an' we trod a stately measure. Every now an' then a shadow passed o'er the ballroom, an' I knew it was the Toreador scowling. But I took no notice of him, an' we danced nearly everything on the menu, Don Rodrigo only getting an odd item now an' then to prevent him dying of grief.
"By-an'-by the Geisha said she must be going, so I offered to escort her home. Don Roddy tried to butt in, and when he got the frozen face he used langwidge more like a cow-puncher than a bull-fighter. I didn't trouble to change my clothes, because it seemed to be the custom to walk about like freaks at Mi-Carême, and we had a lovely promenade in the pale moonlight.
"When I returned the revelry was nearly over an' the orchestra was getting limp. I went into the cloak-room to change my clothes, but I couldn't find 'em anywhere. What annoyed me most about it was that there was five francs in my trouser pockets which I was saving to pay you back the loan I borrered last week."
"I wondered when you were going to say something about that," said Chris Jones.
"It fair upset me," continued Chippo. "And then all at once I saw my old pal the Toreador sneaking out of the door with a bundle an' the leg of a pair of khaki trousers hanging out of it. I gave a wild whoop an' was after him like the wind.
"Don Roddy was some runner. He doubled down the Roo Roubray, dodged round a corner an' made for the Grand Pont. I was gaining on him fast when I plunked into the arms of two Military Police.
"'What particular specie of night-bird do you call yourself?' said one of 'em, holding my arm in a grip of iron.
"'I'm a Sergeant-drummer in the Roman-Legion,' says I, trying to get away. 'An' I'm in a hurry.'
"'Well, where's your pass?'