“Over there,” said Septimus, with a wave of the hand.  He brought a chair from the other table.  “Do sit down.”

Sypher obeyed.  “How’s the wife?”

“The—­what?” asked Septimus.

“The wife—­Mrs. Dix.”

“Oh, very well, thank you,” he said hurriedly.  “Let me introduce you to my good friend Monsieur Hegisippe Cruchot of the Zouaves—­Monsieur Cruchot—­Monsieur Clem Sypher.”

Hegisippe saluted and declared his enchantment according to the manners of his country.  Sypher raised his hat politely.

“Of Sypher’s Cure—­Friend of Humanity.  Don’t forget that,” he said laughingly in French.

“Qu’est ce que c’est que ca?” asked Hegisippe, turning to Septimus.  Septimus explained.

“Ah-h!” cried Hegisippe, open-mouthed, the light of recognition in his eyes. “La Cure Sypher!” He made it rhyme with “prayer.”  “But I know that well.  And it is Monsieur who fabricates ce machin-la?”

“Yes; the Friend of Humanity.  What have you used it for?”

“For my heels when they had blisters after a long day’s march.”

The effect of these words on Sypher was electrical.  He brought both hands down on the table, leaned back in his chair, and looked at Septimus.

“Good heavens!” he cried, changing color, “it never occurred to me.”

“What?”

“Why—­blistered heels—­marching.  Don’t you see?  It will cure the sore feet of the Armies of the World.  It’s a revelation!  It will be in the knapsack of every soldier who goes to manoeuvers or to war!  It will be a jolly sight more useful than a marshal’s baton!  It will bring soothing comfort to millions of brave men!  Why did I never think of it?  I must go round to all the War Offices of the civilized globe.  It’s colossal.  It makes your brain reel.  Friend of Humanity?  I shall be the Benefactor of the Human Race.”

“What will you have to drink?” asked Septimus.

“Anything. Donnez-moi un bock,” he said impatiently, obsessed by his new idea.  “Tell me, Monsieur Cruchot, you who have used the Cure Sypher.  It is well known in the French army is it not?  You had it served out from the regimental medical stores?”

“Ah, no, Monsieur.  It is my mother who rubbed it on my heels.”

Sypher’s face expressed disappointment, but he cheered up again immediately.

“Never mind.  It is the idea that you have given me.  I am very grateful to you, Monsieur Cruchot.”

Hegisippe laughed.  “It is to my mother you should be grateful, Monsieur.”

“I should like to present her with a free order for the Cure for life—­if I knew where she lived.”

“That is easy,” said Hegisippe, “seeing that she is concierge in the house where the belle dame of Monsieur has her appartement.”

“Her appartement?” Sypher turned sharply to Septimus.  “What’s that?  I thought you lived at the Hotel Godet.”