“Monsieur Ned!” he called.  “Monsieur Ned!  I shall see you again?”

Blake was speaking to the cocher.  ‘Rue Ronsard!’ he heard him say.  ‘The corner of the rue Andre de Sarte!’

He leaned out of the window.

“Monsieur Ned!  Monsieur Ned!  I shall see you again?  This is not good-bye?”

Blake turned; he laid his hand on the door of the cab and suddenly smiled his attractive, humorous smile.

“Little fool!” he said.  “Didn’t you know I was coming with you?”

PART II

CHAPTER XII

From a distinctly precarious perch—­one foot on the back of a chair, the other on an oak chest—­Blake surveyed the unfurnished salon of the fifth-floor appartement.  His coat was off, in one dusty hand he held a hammer, in the other a picture, while from between his lips protruded a brass-headed nail.

“If I drive the nail here, boy, will you be satisfied?  Upon my word, it’s the last place I’ll try!” He spoke with what dignity and distinctness he could command, but the effect was lost upon Max, who, also dusty, also bearing upon his person the evidences of manual labor, was crouching over a wood fire, intent upon the contents of a brass coffee-pot.

“Max!  Do you hear me?”

“No, I do not hear.  Take the nail from your mouth.”

“Take it for me!  I haven’t a hand.”

Max left the coffee-pot with some reluctance, crossed the room, and with the seriousness known only to the enthusiastic amateur in house-furnishing, removed the nail from Blake’s mouth.

“It is a shame!  You will spoil your nice teeth.”

“What is a tooth or two in such a cause!  Have you a handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

“Then, for the love of God, wipe my forehead for me!”

Still without a smile, Max produced a handkerchief that had obviously played the role of duster at an earlier hour and, passing it over Blake’s face, removed the dew of heat, leaving in its place a long black streak.

“Thanks!  I’m cooler now—­though probably dirtier!”

“Dirtier!  On the contrary, mon ami!  You have the most artistic scar of dust that makes you as interesting as a German officer!  Oh!” His voice rose to a cry of sharp distress, and he ran back to the fire.  “Oh, my coffee!  My beautiful coffee!  Oh, Ned, it has over boiled!”

Blake eyed the havoc from his coign of vantage with a philosophy tinged with triumph.

“Didn’t I tell you that coffee-pot was a fraud the very first day old Bluebeard tried to palm it off on us!  You will never distinguish between beauty and utility.”

“Beauty is utility!” Max, in deep distress, was using the much-taxed handkerchief to wipe the spilt coffee from the hearth.

“Should be, my boy, but isn’t!  I say, give me that business to see to!” Regardless of the picture still dangling from his hand, he jumped to the ground and strode through a litter of papers, straw, and packing-cases.