"Nay," said Jimmy, "hear me out. I say further--did you mention a
rump-steak underdone?"
"You did," said I.
"And with oysters on the top?"
"It's where they usually go," I pleaded. "I didn't specify.
One takes a lot of these little things for granted."
"Then I say further that, this being one of those occasions on which
no time should be lost, you will reach for that collection of _hors
d'oeuvre_ on the table behind you, and lift your voice for a bottle
of Graves to follow the vermouth and quickly, but not so as to gall
its kibe. . . . And I say last of all," he wound up reflectively,
helping himself to two stuffed olives and a _hareng sauer_, "that the
Professor is running a grave risk, and I wouldn't be in his shoes at
this moment."
"You think--" I began nervously.
"Never did such a thing in my life," said Jimmy. "I _know_. He's in
one of those beastly Restaurant Cars."
Silence descended on Foe for two months and more. Then I received
this long letter:--
Grand Hotel, Paris,
May 27th.
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