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to swoop on me and find out if I was a fraud. Result is, I’m going under my own name—I’d said Croy and they didn’t quite catch it, and when the assistant rapped out ‘Comment appelez-vous?’ I said ‘Antoine-Hugues-Philippe-Ste. Croix!” very quickly, without thinking, and they both said “French?”—as if one’d be Danish with a name like that. . . . Hullo! here comes a waiter to tell me I’m not needed. I’ll be back in five minutes—or ten at the most. Hope you don’t mind the livery? I’ve only got this sort of thing with me.”

“Don’t be an ass, Tony. Come back, and we’ll go for a walk.”

Tony disappeared with the car and George was left meditating on their chance meeting, more glad than he could say that the forlorn young Antoine of eight years ago had turned up again obviously fit and with his head well above water. George, a faithful person with few friends, though many acquaintances of most nationalities, had been oddly attracted by the small waif who had disappeared so abruptly, and had thought of him often, sick at heart, for he could not hope that such a child was in any way able to fight a large and indifferent world. But somehow or other he had come out on top, and George was immensely glad and exceedingly curious.

Tony was back in rather less than his five minutes, and as they walked on together Derwent resumed the conversation where it had broken off.

“Don’t you generally use your own name?”

“Not much. You see, it’s an awkward mouthful for a labourer’s name, and my work is—varied. And besides, I’m down as Croy in most of the references I’ve got. As soon as old Marchmont heard I was French—by birth—he seemed to think I must be efficient and made no more difficulties. Funny! Well, I do understand that car. She’s a Delaunay Belleville—a beauty. She———”