"We can but try," he observed, selecting a fresh cigarette and lighting it.
At that moment the stairs outside creaked, and a light footstep was heard upon them.
"Hark!" exclaimed the younger man. "She has arrived! She promised she would come to-night."
The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open unceremoniously, and Valérie Dedieu entered.
Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognized her had they met her in the street in broad daylight. A common and shabby tweed ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed, dark blue hat, battered and faded.
Her disguise was complete.
"Well, you see I'm here as requested," she exclaimed, as she burst into the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged old leather sofa.
"Ah, ma petite lapin, we're glad you've come," Bérard replied, with a smile. "If Mahomet can't go to the mountain because he has no decent clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet."
"That's so," she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a chair at the table. "I look nice in this get-up, don't I? Pierre, give me a cigarette. You've apparently forgotten your manners towards a lady," she added reproachfully.
The trio laughed. The younger man did as he was commanded, and gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.
"Now, how have you been getting on?" she inquired.
"Deuced badly," Bérard replied. "We're hard up and must have money."
