Deulin saw his friend emerge from
a club in Pall Mall and walk westward, as if he had business in that
direction. Like many travellers, the Frenchman loved the open air.
Like all Frenchmen, he loved the streets. He was idling in Pall Mall,
avoiding a man here and there. For we all have friends whom we are
content to see pass by on the other side. Deulin's duty was, moreover,
such that it got strangely mixed up with his pleasure, and it often
happens that discretion must needs overcome a natural sociability.
Cartoner saw his friend approaching; for Deulin had the good fortune,
or the misfortune, to be a distinguished-looking man, with a tall,
spare form, a trim white mustache and imperial, and that air of calm
possession of his environment which gives to some paupers the manner of
a great land-owner. He shook hands in silence, then turned and walked
with Cartoner.
"I permit myself a question," he said. "When did you return from Cuba?"
"I landed at Liverpool last night."
Cartoner turned in his abrupt way and looked his companion up and down.
Perhaps he was wondering for the hundredth time what might be buried
behind those smiling eyes.
"I am in London, as you see," said Deulin, as if he had been asked a
question.
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