Chapter 26 - Page 2

Ephrinell," replied the Yankee.

Mr.! Mrs.! And not so long ago they were calling each other Fulk and
Horatia.

And then, without taking each other's arm, they walked out of the
station. I believe he turned to the right and she to the left; but that
is their affair.

There remains my No. 8, Sir Francis Trevellyan, the silent personage,
who has not said a word all through the piece--I mean all through the
journey. I wanted to hear his voice, if it was only for one second.

Eh! If I am not mistaken, here is the opportunity at last.

There is the phlegmatic gentleman contemptuously looking up and down
the cars. He has just taken a cigar from his yellow morocco case, but
when he looks at his match-box he finds it empty.

My cigar--a particularly good one--is alight, and I am smoking it with
the blessed satisfaction of one who enjoys it, and regretting that
there is not a man in all China who has its equal.

Sir Francis Trevellyan has seen the light burning at the end of my
cigar, and he comes towards me.

I think he is going to ask me for a light. He stretches out his hand,
and I present him with my cigar.

He takes it between his thumb and forefinger, knocks off the white ash,
lights up, and then, if I had not heard him ask for a light, I at least
expected him to say, "Thank you, sir!"

Not at all! Sir Francis Trevellyan takes a few puffs at his own cigar,
and then nonchalantly throws mine on to the platform. And then without
even a bow, he walks leisurely off out of the railway station.

Did you say nothing? No, I remained astounded. He gave me neither a
word nor a gesture. I was completely dumfounded at this ultra-Britannic
rudeness, while Major Noltitz could not restrain a loud outburst of
laughter.

Ah! If I should see this gentleman again. But never did I see again Sir
Francis Trevellyan of Trevellyan Hall, Trevellyanshire.

Half an hour afterwards we are installed at the Hotel of _Ten Thousand
Dreams_. There we are served with a dinner in Chinese style. The repast
being over--towards the second watch--we lay ourselves on beds that are
too narrow in rooms with little comfort, and sleep not the sleep of the
just, but the sleep of the exhausted--and that is just as good.

I did not wake before ten o'clock, and I might have slept all the
morning if the thought had not occurred to me that I had a duty to
fulfil. And what a duty! To call in the Avenue Cha Coua before the
delivery of the unhappy case to Mademoiselle Zinca Klork.

I arise. Ah! If Kinko had not succumbed, I should have returned to the
railway station--I should have assisted, as I had promised, in the
unloading of the precious package. I would have watched it on to the