pocket of my
overcoat. No hurt; not a blow. Did I suppose that he, a Frenchman, would
pardon that or leave the spot until satisfaction had been exacted? Then
I begged him to be calm and listen to me for a moment. I told him my
plight,--that I had given my word to be at barracks that evening; that I
had no money left, but I could go no further. Instantly he forgot his
woes and became absorbed in my affairs. _'Parole d'honneur!_' he would
see that mine was never unsullied. He himself would escort me to the
_maison de_ Capitaine Cram. He would rejoice to say to that brave
ennemi, Behold! here is thy lieutenant, of honor the most unsullied, of
courage the most admirable, of heart the most magnanimous. The Lord only
knows what he wouldn't have done had we not pulled up at his gate. There
I helped him out on the banquette. He was steadied by his row, whatever
it had been. He would not let me expose myself--even under Pierce's
umbrella. He would not permit me to suffer 'from times so of the dog.'
'You will drive Monsieur to his home and return here for me at once,' he
ordered cabby, grasped both my hands with fervent good-night and the
explanation that he had much haste, implored pardon for leaving me,--on
the morrow he would call and explain everything,--then darted into the
gate. We never could have parted on more friendly terms. I stood a
moment to see that he safely reached his door, for a light was dimly
burning in the hall, then turned to jump into the cab, but it wasn't
there. Nothing was there. I jumped from the banquette into a berth
aboard some steamer out at sea. They tell me the first thing I asked for
was Pierce's umbrella and Larkin's hat."

And this was the story that Waring maintained from first to last.
"Pills" ventured a query as to whether the amount of Krug and Clicquot
consumed might not have overthrown his mental equipoise. No, Sam
declared, he drank very little. "The only bacchanalian thing I did was
to join in a jovial chorus from a new French opera which Lascelles's
friend piped up and I had heard in the North:

Oui, buvons, buvons encore!
S'il est un vin qu'on adore
De Paris a Macao,
C'est le Clicquot, c'est le Clicquot."

Asked if he had formed any conjecture as to the identity of the
stranger, Sam said no. The name sounded like "Philippes," but he
couldn't be sure. But when told that there were rumors to the effect
that Lascelles's younger brother had been seen with him t