word is spoken. I entered the shop as a typical holiday-making Briton; I neared the counter with the smile of a friend; and I am sure that my greeting conveyed to the attending Teuton the suggestion of a benevolent interest in his welfare. Then I informed him that I required a five-pound note; and having only the sum of fifty-three francs in my possession I made some discreet demonstration with it.
The elderly German reached out his note and placed it before me, while I passed the time with gay badinage on the subject of the profits of money-changing and usury at large. I also told him a funny story about a countess and a runaway flying-machine, and generally established myself on genial terms with him. Then I began to count out my francs.
At forty-eight the smile faded from my face, and a startled, even pained, look took its place. Mechanically I counted out three more francs—stopped—then swept the lot back into my pocket. I flatter myself that it was delicately led up to—first, an almost imperceptible arrest of the bubbling gaiety of expression, a half-incredulous doubt; then a swift, hawk-like glance into his face; another sharp examination of the note, here, there; and with grieved conviction I straightened myself up and pushed the note away.
But I had no intention of becoming unapproachable. Well, were we not both men of the world? The attempt—if attempt it had been, and not mere accident—had failed. I had been too sharp, and I was not a penny the worse off. Gradually my good-humour returned. I smiled—I smiled roguishly, and shook my head sagely from side to side in amiable reproof.
"Oh, no, my friend," I said mildly; "not to-day. Oh, by no means to-day with Mr. Walker, of London!"
I fear that much of the subtle range of emotion was
