Now, persuaded by the American, we one by one fell silent, to give our
victim his opportunity; whilst those nearest to him baited the trap by
looking enquiringly at his face.

It was all he needed.

'I beg your pardon,' he began, with no symptom of diffidence, 'but I
too was at the _Vernissage_ to-day, and some of your comments upon it
have surprised me.' He spoke with a _staccato_ north-country accent,
in a chirpy, querulous little voice; and each syllable seemed to chop
the air, like a blow from a small hatchet. 'Am I to take it that you
are serious when you condemn Bouguereau's great picture as a
_croûte_? _Croûte_, if I mistake not, is equivalent to the English
_daub_?'

Our one-armed waiter, Pierre, had but awaited this crisis to come
forward and receive our orders. When they were delivered Chalks
courteously explained the situation to the neophyte, adding that, as a
further formality, he must make us acquainted with his name and
occupation.

He accepted it in perfectly good part. 'I'm sure I shall feel honoured
if you will drink with me,' he said, and settled the reckoning with
Pierre.

'Name? Name?' a dozen of us cried in scattering chorus.

'I had thought that, among so many Englishmen and Americans, some one
would have recognised me,' he replied. 'I am Davis Blake.'