Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
But he spoke in English, which the man failed to comprehend. The look of suspicion upon his face, however, was intensified by the ring of the unfamiliar accents.
"What language is it you speak, m'sieur?" he asked peremptorily.
"English," responded O'Rourke in execrable French—French positively mutilated by a strong British accent. "And what's that to ye?" he desired further to know.
"This is the frontier, m'sieur—the frontier of Grandlieu. M'sieur will be pleased to exhibit his passport."
"M'sieur will be pleased to do nothing of the sort." O'Rourke lolled back in his chair and pulled his broad-brimmed, soft hat well down over his eyes. "If ye want to see me passport," he grunted, "ask me courier for it. He has both his own and mine. Now, get out."
But the officer of Grandlieu's frontier guard lingered.
"And m'sieur's courier?" he asked. "Where is he?"
"How the divvle would I be knowing? In the third-class carriage—I know no more than that. Ask for the courier for Lord Delisle, and he will declare himself, probably. A small, quick-looking fellow he will be, with black hair and black eyes."
"Many thanks, milord. Pardon, milord, for the unfortunate but necessary intrusion. Good night, milord."
O'Rourke snorted and snuggled himself within his greatcoat, pretending to woo sleep a second time. The guard and the customs officer sidled respectfully from the compartment and closed the door. O'Rourke did not move. To all appearances he was sound asleep when they returned, chattering excitedly.
"But, milord!" expostulated the man of Grandlieu, jerking open the door and a second time letting in a gust of icy wind.
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