--Sept. 4th."
He grasped it in his fingers and tore open the envelope. As he read the
single page of closely written writing his eyes seemed almost to
protrude. He gave a little gasp. No wonder there were those who reckoned
this single page of manuscript worth a great fortune. Every sentence,
every word told its own story. It was a page of the world's history.
Then a strange thing happened. Some part of him rebelled against the
instinct which prompted him carefully to fold and place in his
breast-pocket this wonderful find of his. His nerves seemed suddenly
frozen in his body. There was a curious numb sensation at the back of
his neck which forbade him to turn round. His hands shook, his teeth
chattered. The sweat of death was upon his forehead and despair in his
heart. He had heard nothing, seen nothing; yet he knew that he was no
longer alone.
When at last he turned round he turned his whole body. The muscles of
his neck were numbed still his knees shook, and his face was ghastly.
Monsieur Louis of the Cafe Montmartre, brave of tongue and gallant of
bearing, had suddenly collapsed. Monsieur Louis, the drug-sodden
degenerate of a family whose nobles had made gay the scaffolds of the
Place de la Republique, cowered in his place.
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