calling: “Monsieur Jack! Monsieur Jack! this was left by Monsieur Fallowby!”
He took the letter, and leaning on the threshold of the lodge, read it:
“Dear Jack,
“I believe Braith is dead broke and I’m sure Fallowby is. Braith swears he isn’t, and Fallowby swears he is, so you can draw your own conclusions. I’ve got a scheme for a dinner, and if it works, I will let you fellows in.
“All right,” said Trent, with a smile, to the concierge; “but tell me, how is Papa Cottard?”
The old woman shook her head and pointed to the curtained bed in the lodge.
“Père Cottard!” he cried cheerily, “how goes the wound today?”
He walked over to the bed and drew the curtains. An old man was lying among the tumbled sheets.
“Better?” smiled Trent.
“Better,” repeated the man wearily; and, after a pause, “Have you any news, Monsieur Jack?”
“I haven’t been out today. I will bring you any rumour I may hear, though goodness knows I’ve got enough of rumours,” he muttered to himself. Then aloud: “Cheer up; you’re looking better.”
“And the sortie?”
“Oh, the sortie, that’s for this week. General Trochu sent orders last night.”