They walked in silence to the Rue St. Honoré, Monty still a bit uneasy at being in a crowded place with a friend in whose pocket was a million francs’ worth of precious stones. Once or twice as the pocket gaped open he caught a glimpse of the worn pigskin pouch. Steven was taking wholly unnecessary risks, he thought.
As they were leaving Voisin’s together after their luncheon it happened that Monty walked behind his friend through the door. Deftly he inserted his hand into the gaping pocket and removed the pouch to his own. He chuckled to think of the object lesson he would presently dilate upon.
When they were near one of those convenient seats which Paris provides for her street-living populace Monty suggested a minute’s rest.
With an elaborate gesture he took out the pouch and showed it to Denby.
“Did you ever see this before?” he demanded.
“I’ve got one just like it,” his friend returned without undue interest. “Useful things, aren’t they, and last so much longer than the rubber ones?”
“My pouch,” said Monty, beginning to enjoy his own joke, “looks better inside than outside. I keep in it tobacco I grow in my private orchid house. Look!”
He pulled back the flap and held it out to Denby.
Denby gazed in it obediently with no change of countenance.
“You’re not a heavy smoker, are you?” he returned.