"Nothing important," I replied in French. "But you might just clear up the mess, will you, waiter? I have broken a little bottle of mine and the glass of vermouth too. I'm sorry to trouble you. Mr. Featherson will be back in a minute if you wish to see him," and I gave him half a louis.
The man left and returned very quickly, but he was still sweeping up the débris as the tenant of the room came back.
"Hullo, what's happened?" he queried.
"Oh, nothing, except I've spilled your drink, but that can soon be remedied. Bring another—no; bring two vermouth and sodas," I ordered the waiter as he, poor devil, took out his dustpan with its deadly contents.
All this time I felt very nervous. Would the young Frenchman say anything? What would happen to others who came into contact with the tens of thousands of pneumonia germs now set free in the house?
These were ugly questions.
"I couldn't see any sign of the chap, d'Escombe. I expect you were mistaken. You're young at the game yet," laughed my companion. "Anyway we'll risk it, and have some dinner. Over at the 'Paris' is best, perhaps—or Ciro's. How the dickens did you manage
