It must be done in person. I did it, and came to your post in my
return. I kept on winking at you as a sign that I wanted a word with
you alone."
"Yes, yes. I begin to understand."
"I couldn't give it away before all those blacks, or where should I have
been the next time I used my false beard and Arab dress? You put me in
a very awkward position. But at last I had a word alone with your
Egyptian officer, who managed my escape all right."
"He! Mahomet Ali!"
"I ordered him to say nothing. I had a score to settle with you.
But we dine at eight, Captain Joyce. We live plainly here, but I think
I can do you a little better than you did me at Kurkur."
A FOREIGN OFFICE ROMANCE
There are many folk who knew Alphonse Lacour in his old age. From about
the time of the Revolution of '48 until he died in the second year of
the Crimean War he was always to be found in the same corner of the Cafe
de Provence, at the end of the Rue St. Honore, coming down about nine in
the evening, and going when he could find no one to talk with. It took
some self-restraint to listen to the old diplomatist, for his stories
were beyond all belief, and yet he was quick at detecting the shadow of
a smile or the slightest little raising of the eyebrows. Then his huge,
rounded back would straighten itself, his bull-dog chin would project,
and his r's would burr like a kettledrum.
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