The other swung upright at this, his round, oily face sodden,
his black eyes blinking. He threw off the stupor when he saw
that it was a man and not the shadow of one.
"Who the devil are you?" he asked, thickly.
Maurice seldom forgot a face. He recognized this one. "Oho!" he
said, "so it's you, eh? I did not expect to meet you. Happily I
had you in mind. You are not employed at present as a porter at
the Grand Hotel? So it is you, my messenger!"
"Who are you and what are you talking about? I don't know you."
"Wait a moment and I'll refresh your memory." Maurice
theatrically thrust a cigar between his teeth and struck a match.
As the flame illumined his features the questioner started. "So
you do not recognize me, eh? You haven't the slightest
remembrance of Herr Hamilton and his sprained ankle, eh? Sit
down or I'll break your head with this stein, you police spy!"
dropping the bantering tone.
The other sat down, but he whistled sharply; and Maurice saw the
dozen or so rise from the other tables and come hurriedly in his
direction. He pushed back his chair and rose, his teeth firmly
embedded in the cigar, and waited.
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