In doing so, he touched the young man's
shoulder, and said: "Pardon!"
Curtis turned, and looked into the singularly unprepossessing face of a
swarthy foreigner, a powerfully-built, ungainly person of about his own
age.
"That's all right," said he, licking a stamp.
"I jostled you by accident, monsieur," said the other, in correct
French, though with a quaint accent which Curtis, himself no mean
linguist, put down to a Polish or Czech nationality.
"_Ca ne fait rien_," he replied civilly, and the stamping of the
letters being completed, he took them to the letter-box.
The stranger, who seemed to be rather puzzled, if somewhat reassured,
dawdled over the lighting of the cigar, and watched Curtis enter the
dining-room. Then he went back to his chair in the cafe. So much, and
no more, did the youth in charge of the counter observe--not a great
deal, but it went a long way before midnight.
A clock in the hall showed that the hour was five minutes to seven.
Half hoping that Devar might actually put in an appearance a little
later, Curtis gave his hat and coat to a negro, and decided to dine in
the hotel. Evidently, the place still retained its old-time repute as
a family and commercial resort. The family element was in evidence at
some of the tables, while, in the case of solitary diners, each man
could have been labeled Pittsburg, Chicago, or Philadelphia, almost
without error, by those acquainted with the industrial life of the
United States.
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