He read
the English newspapers, and wrote letters until midnight. Then he
ordered a carriage and drove to the Cafe Montmartre.
He mounted the stairs and passed through the little bar which led into
the supper-room. Monsieur Albert came forward with a low bow.
"You can find me a table, I suppose?" Duncombe remarked, looking round.
"Where shall I sit?"
Monsieur Albert shook his head slowly. His hands were outstretched, his
manner sad, but resigned.
"I am very sorry, Monsieur, but to-night every place is taken. I have
had to turn others away already," he declared. "A thousand regrets."
Duncombe looked at him astonished. The place was more than half empty.
"Surely you can find me a small table somewhere," he said. "I was here
last evening, you know. If it is because I am alone I will order supper
for two and a magnum of wine."
Monsieur Albert was immovable. He remembered Duncombe well, and he was
proud of his patronage, but to-night it was impossible to offer him a
table. Duncombe began to be annoyed.
"Very well," he said, "I will stay in the bar. You can't turn me out of
there, can you?"
Monsieur Albert was evasive.
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