"You're right," said l'Echelle. "He's down on his luck, and he don't
want you to see it. He's dying for news that don't seem in a hurry to
come. Half a dozen times to-day he's asked me to inquire if there's a
telegram for him, and he haunts the hall porter's box continually in
the hope of getting one. Have you heard any more from Tiler?"
"Yes, another mad telegram, this time from Marseilles. Fancy that! It
will be Constantinople next or Grand Cairo or Timbuctoo. The folly of
it!"
"What does my lord say?"
"Plenty, and it's not pleasant to bear. He's getting fairly wild, and
cart ropes won't hold him. He wants to go racing after Tiler now, and
if he does he'll give away the whole show. I hope to heaven your boss
will show his hand soon."
"It's not for me to make him, you must admit that. But cheer up,
_copain_, things may mend."
They did, as often happens when they seem to be at their worst.
I have always been an early riser, and was specially so at Aix, now
when the heat was intense, and the pleasantest hours of the day were
before the sun had risen high.
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