_I_ do not profit, you think? No._morbleu!_
but there are some who hang!"
Emptying my third glass, I ordered a fourth and one for my companion.
He checked me.
"No more for me, thank you," he said. "I have--business to attend to.
I will wish you good-night."
"Good-night!" I cried boisterously--"good-night, friend! take heed of
my good advice!"
As he went out, the barman brought me my fourth glass of cognac, staring
at me doubtfully. Our conversation had been conducted in French, but
the tone of my voice had attracted attention.
"Had about enough, ain't you, mate?" he said. "Your ugly pal jibbed!"
"Quite enough!" I replied, in English now of course. "But I've had a
stroke of luck to-night and I feel happy. Have one with me. This is a
final."
On going out into the street I looked cautiously about me, for I did
not expect to reach the house of Dr. Stuart unmolested. I credited
"Le Balafre" with sufficient acumen to distrust the genuineness of
my intoxication, even if he was unaware of my real identity. I never
make the mistake of underestimating an opponent's wit, and whilst
acting on the assumption that the scarred man knew me to be forcing
his hand, I recognized that whether he believed me to be drunk or
sober, Gaston Mas or another, his line of conduct must be the same.
He must take it for granted that I actually designed to lodge my notes
with Dr. Stuart and endeavour to prevent me doing so.
I could detect no evidence of surveillance whatever and cranking the
engine I mounted and drove off.
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