still twanging out his czardas; the waiters serving drinks; the orientals
trying to sell their carpets. I paid the bill, sought out the manager,
and apologised. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled and said: "An
eccentric, your friend, nicht wahr?" Could he tell me where M. Le
Ferrier was? He could not. I left to look for Jules; could not find
him, and returned to my hotel disgusted. I was sorry for my old guest,
but vexed with him too; what business had he to carry his Quixotism to
such an unpleasant length? I tried to read. Eleven o'clock struck; the
casino disgorged a stream of people; the Place seemed fuller of life than
ever; then slowly it grew empty and quite dark. The whim seized me to go
out. It was a still night, very warm, very black. On one of the seats a
man and woman sat embraced, on another a girl was sobbing, on a
third--strange sight--a priest dozed. I became aware of some one at my
side; it was my old guest.

"If you are not too tired," he said, "can you give me ten minutes?"

"Certainly; will you come in?"

"No, no; let us go down to the Terrace. I shan't keep you long."

He did not speak again till we reached a seat above the pigeon-shooting
grounds; there, in a darkness denser for the string of lights still
burning in the town, we sat down.

"I owe you an apology," he said; "first in the afternoon, then again this
evening--your guest--your friend's glove! I have behaved as no gentleman
should." He was leaning forward with his hands on the handle of a stick.
His voice sounded broken and disturbed.

"Oh!" I muttered. "It's nothing!"'

"You are very good," he sighed; "but I feel that I must explain. I
consider I owe this to you, but I must tell you I should not have the
courage if it were not for another reason. You see I have no friend." He
looked at me with an uncertain smile. I bowed, and a minute or two later
he began....

III

"You will excuse me if I go back rather far. It was in '74, when I had
been ill with Cuban fever. To keep me alive they had put me on board a
ship at Santiago, and at the end of the voyage I found myself in London.
I had very little money; I knew nobody. I tell you, sir, there are times
when it's hard for a fighting man to get anything to do. People would
say to me: 'Afraid we've nothing for a man like you in our business.' I
tried people of all sorts; but it was true--I had been fighting here and
there since '60, I wasn't fit for anything