I leaned towards Louis, but he anticipated my question. His hand had
caught my wrist and was pinning it down to the table.

"Wait!" he muttered--"wait! You perceive that we are drinking wine of
the vintage of '98. I will tell you of my trip to the vineyards. Do
not look at that man as though his appearance was anything
remarkable. You are not an habitue here, and he will take notice of
you."

As one who speaks upon the subject most interesting to him, Louis,
with the gestures and swift, nervous diction of his race, talked to me
of the vineyards and the cellars of the famous champagne house whose
wine we were drinking. I did my best to listen intelligently, but
every moment I found my eyes straying towards this new arrival, now
deep in apparently pleasant conversation with Monsieur Carvin.

The newcomer had the air of one who has looked in to smile around at
his acquaintances and pass on. He accepted a cigarette from Carvin,
but he did not sit down, and I saw him smile a polite refusal as a
small table was pointed out to him. He strolled a little into the
place and he bowed pleasantly to several with whom he seemed to be
acquainted, amongst whom was the man Bartot. He waved his hand to
others further down the room. His circle of acquaintances, indeed,
seemed unlimited. Then, with a long hand-shake and some parting jest,
he took leave of Monsieur Carvin and disappeared. Somehow or other one
seemed to feel the breath of relief which went shivering through the
room as he departed. Louis answered then my unspoken question.

"That," he said, "is a very great man. His name is Monsieur Myers."