"What WOULD suit you?" queried Errington. "You find everything more
or less of a bore."

"Ah, my good little boy!" broke in Duprez. "Paris is the place for
you. You should live in Paris. Of that you would never fatigue
yourself."

"Too much absinthe, secret murder and suicidal mania," returned
Lorimer, meditatively. "That was a neat idea about the coffins
though. I never hoped to dine off a coffin."

"Ah! you mean the Taverne de l'Enfer?" exclaimed Duprez. "Yes; the
divine waitresses wore winding sheets, and the wine was served in
imitation skulls. Excellent! I remember; the tables were shaped like
coffins."

"Gude Lord Almighty!" piously murmured Macfarlane. "What a fearsome
sicht!"

As he pronounced these words with an unusually marked accent, Duprez
looked inquiring.

"What does our Macfarlane say?"

"He says it must have been a 'fearsome sicht,'" repeated Lorimer,
with even a stronger accent than Sanby's own, "which, mon cher
Pierre, means all the horrors in your language; affreux,
epouvantable, navrant--anything you like, that is sufficiently
terrible."