'It's only I, my friend,' said Gaston, in French, crossing over to
the other bed and sitting on it. 'Come here; I wish to speak to
you.'

Pierre rose from his sleeping place, and, stumbling across the room,
stood before Gaston with downcast eyes, his shaggy hair all tossed
and tumbled by the contact with the pillow. Gaston himself coolly
relit his cigarette, which had gone out, threw his straw hat on the
bed, and then, curling one leg inside the other, looked long and
keenly at Pierre.

'You saw Madame's husband to-day?' he said sharply, still eyeing the
slouching figure before him, that seemed so restless under his
steady gaze.

Pierre nodded and shuffled his large feet.

'Did he want to know about his wife?'

Another nod.

'I thought so; and about the new nugget also, I presume?'

Still another nod.

'Humph,' thoughtfully. 'He'd like to get a share of it, I've no
doubt.'

The dumb man nodded violently; then, crossing over to his own bed,
he placed the pillow in the centre of it, and falling on his knees,