Sir John, in a quiet dark travelling suit, was sitting in a pokey
little room writing letters. The room was worse than pokey, it was
shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs,
wholly uninspiring. Nevertheless, Sir John had the look of a man who
was enjoying himself. He seemed years younger, and the arrangement of
his tie and hair were almost rakish. He stamped his last letter as
Annabel entered.
She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was
accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat.
"John," she declared, "I must eat or die. Do get your hat, and we will
go to that corner cafe."
"Right," he answered. "I know the place you mean--very good cooking
for such an out-of-the-way show. I'll be ready in a moment."
Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his
moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass.
"I really do not believe," he announced with satisfaction, "that any
one would recognize me. What do you think, Annabel?"
"I don't think they would," she admitted. "You seem to have cultivated
quite a jaunty appearance, and you certainly look years younger. One
would think that you enjoyed crawling away out of your world into
hiding, with a very foolish wicked wife."
"Upon my word," he declared, "you are right. I really am enjoying it.
It is like a second honeymoon. If it wasn't for the fear that after
all--but we won't think of that. I don't believe any one could have
traced us here. You see, we travelled second class, and we are in the
least known quarter of Paris. To-night we leave for Marseilles. On
Thursday we embark for South America."
"You are a marvellous courier," she declared, as they passed into the
street. "You see, I will take your arm. It looks so French to be
affectionate."
"There are some French customs," he declared, "which are admirable. I
presume that I may not kiss you in the street?"
"Certainly not, sir," she replied, laughing. "If you attempted such a
thing it would be in order that I should smack you hard with the palm
of my hand upon the cheek."
"That is another French custom," he remarked, "which is not so
agreeable. Here we are. Shall we sit outside and drink a _petit verre_
of something to give us an appetite while dinner is being prepared?"
"Certainly not," she answered. "I am already so hungry that I shall
begin on the _petit pains_. I have an appetite which I dare not
increase."
They entered the place, a pleasant little cafe of the sort to be met
with in the outlying parts of Paris. Most of the tables were for those
who smoked only and drank wine, but there were a few spread with
tablecloths and laid for dinner. Sir John and Annabel seated
themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small
dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a
waiter.