It was the gay boulevardier whom I had seen on the Jetée Promenade.
“Why do you warn me?” I inquired, surprised at the reveller’s grave face, so different from what it had been when he had shaken his bells and sung the merry chorus of “La Noire.”
“Because you’re acting the fool, Ewart,” Regnier replied.
“I’m merely taking them about on the car.”
“But how did you first come across them?” he repeated.
“That’s my own affair, mon cher,” I responded, with a laugh; for I could not quite see why he took such an interest in us both, or why he should have been watching us.
“Oh, very well,” he answered in a tone of slight annoyance. “Only tell your people to be careful. And don’t say I didn’t warn you. I know her—and you don’t.”
“Yes,” interposed his companion. “We both know her, Henri, don’t we—to our cost, eh?”
“She recognised you this evening,” I said.
“I know. I was amazed to find her here, in Nice—and with the old woman, too!”