My old friend’s cigar fell on the table.  “Monsieur,” he stammered, “you speak of a lady so, in a public place?”

The young man stared at him.  “Who is this person?” he said to his companion.

My guest took up Jules’s glove that lay on the table; before either of us could raise a finger, he had swung it in the speaker’s face.  “Enough!” he said, and, dropping the glove, walked away.

We all jumped to our feet.  I left Jules and hurried after him.  His face was grim, his eyes those of a creature who has been struck on a raw place.  He made a movement of his fingers which said plainly.  “Leave me, if you please!”

I went back to the cafe.  The two young men had disappeared, so had Jules, but everything else was going on just as before; the bandsman still twanging out his czardas; the waiters serving drinks; the orientals trying to sell their carpets.  I paid the bill, sought out the manager, and apologised.  He shrugged his shoulders, smiled and said:  “An eccentric, your friend, nicht wahr?” Could he tell me where M. Le Ferrier was?  He could not.  I left to look for Jules; could not find him, and returned to my hotel disgusted.  I was sorry for my old guest, but vexed with him too; what business had he to carry his Quixotism to such an unpleasant length?  I tried to read.  Eleven o’clock struck; the casino disgorged a stream of people; the Place seemed fuller of life than ever; then slowly it grew empty and quite dark.  The whim seized me to go out.  It was a still night, very warm, very black.  On one of the seats a man and woman sat embraced, on another a girl was sobbing, on a third—­strange sight—­a priest dozed.  I became aware of some one at my side; it was my old guest.

“If you are not too tired,” he said, “can you give me ten minutes?”

“Certainly; will you come in?”

“No, no; let us go down to the Terrace.  I shan’t keep you long.”

He did not speak again till we reached a seat above the pigeon-shooting grounds; there, in a darkness denser for the string of lights still burning in the town, we sat down.

“I owe you an apology,” he said; “first in the afternoon, then again this evening—­your guest—­your friend’s glove!  I have behaved as no gentleman should.”  He was leaning forward with his hands on the handle of a stick.  His voice sounded broken and disturbed.

“Oh!” I muttered.  “It’s nothing!"’

“You are very good,” he sighed; “but I feel that I must explain.  I consider I owe this to you, but I must tell you I should not have the courage if it were not for another reason.  You see I have no friend.”  He looked at me with an uncertain smile.  I bowed, and a minute or two later he began....

III