Of course he did, for he took Bar at once to a fashionable up-town restaurant of the very first class.
The way to it was in the opposite direction from the one Major Montague had taken, and Bar experienced a feeling of relief at finding himself at one of the little marble-topped tables, with so many well-appearing ladies and gentlemen around him. A moment later, however, Val asked him:
“What’s the matter, Bar, my boy? You look pale.”
“Nothing,” replied Bar; “only do you see that tall, French-looking party, three tables away down the aisle, there on the right?”
“I see him,” said Val. “You can never tell anything by the looks of those foreigners. I took one for a gambler a while ago, and he turned out to be a Count somebody. Maybe that’s a Count. Do you know him?”
“Wait and see if he stays to finish his dinner,” said Bar. “I don’t want him to speak to me.”
The stranger, if his exterior had been reärranged to suit, might have resembled a gentleman by the name of Prosper, but, just then and there, he was managing a very different character, for his former plans, as we have seen, had been badly broken up, and he was for the present, not only alone in the world, but anxious to remain so.
His position was “sidewise” to that of the two friends, and there was no one between them.
Suddenly it seemed to him as if a voice close to his ear exclaimed:
“Russia leather, eh?”