much-vaunted Paris police. He was, of course, immediately released. But Mr. Marston, however much he has enjoyed himself, has aided in the defeat of the ends of justice—though without such intention—by failing to assert and prove his identity at the time of his arrest. No doubt, he had gotten a great deal of fun out of it. But the defacement of the Liberty Bell was an offense against national sentiment and dignity, and all good citizens will agree that…
At about eight o’clock in the evening of the day on which the Daconia arrived in New York, two men were seated, smoking at the dinner table in the Marston home on Fifth Avenue. The ladies had departed about fifteen minutes previously. The elder man was puffing thoughtfully on a large black Cazadores; the younger had consumed two cigarettes and was starting on a third.
“That bridge over the Tiber at Athens is wonderful,” said the younger man suddenly, breaking the oppressive silence with an effort. “I don’t wonder you insisted I shouldn’t miss it.” He chattered on for a minute, stammered, and stopped.
“William,” said the elder man in a voice deep, well modulated, and musical, “You’re a perfect ass. Don’t try to play the innocent baby with me. I know you too well. At the same time, I have made a discovery. There is one man in this world who is even a bigger idiot than you are.”
Judging by the calm tranquility with which the younger man received these rather forceful phrases, it is to be supposed that he had heard them before. He poured himself a pony of cognac and passed it to and fro under his nose.
“Of course,” he said, sniffing with appreciation, “you arouse my curiosity. Who may this inconceivable idiot be?”
The elder man drew in a mouthful of smoke and expelled it with the proper care and deliberation before he answered. “The man,” he said, “who, at your request, painted a monstrous, red, hideous sign on the Liberty Bell of our great country.” Jonathan Marston, the terrible, smiled reminiscently—a smile of wisdom and understanding.
“And by the way,” he continued presently, “it is really too bad that your little plot made it necessary to change your address. Of course that was why you missed my last cablegram. My advice to walk home was meant merely as a temporary pill. I wired you five hundred dollars the following day.”
Méthode Américaine
P IERRE D UMIAN SAT AT A TABLE in the Café Sigognac, sipping a glass of vichy and reading an article in L’Avenir . From time to time he gave an impatient grunt, which occasionally reached an audible ejaculation as his eye met a phrase particularly displeasing. Finally he tossed the paper onto the chair at his side and, placing his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, gazed steadily at his empty glass with an air of deep disgust.
Pierre never felt very well in the morning. True to his calling, he was always more or less uneasy in the sunlight; besides, one must pay for one’s indiscretions. But on this particular morning he was more than uncomfortable: he was in genuine distress. He was pondering over a real misfortune. What an ass he had been! Surely he had been insane. Nothing less could account for it. He cast a glance at the newspaper, extended his hand toward it, then nervously resumed his former position. The thing was absurd—absolutely absurd. How could it have been taken seriously? He would write an apology—a correction. But no, that was no longer possible. Decidedly, he must see it through; there was his reputation. Well, for the future he would be careful—very careful. He would be more than circumspect: he would be absolutely polite. But—Bah! What a horrible thought! Perhaps there would be no future? Perhaps this would be his last? This was too much for Pierre’s excited nerves. He straightened himself in his chair, muttered an oath half-aloud, and called to a waiter for another glass of vichy. It was at this moment that he felt a hand on
At about eight o’clock in the evening of the day on which the Daconia arrived in New York, two men were seated, smoking at the dinner table in the Marston home on Fifth Avenue. The ladies had departed about fifteen minutes previously. The elder man was puffing thoughtfully on a large black Cazadores; the younger had consumed two cigarettes and was starting on a third.
“That bridge over the Tiber at Athens is wonderful,” said the younger man suddenly, breaking the oppressive silence with an effort. “I don’t wonder you insisted I shouldn’t miss it.” He chattered on for a minute, stammered, and stopped.
“William,” said the elder man in a voice deep, well modulated, and musical, “You’re a perfect ass. Don’t try to play the innocent baby with me. I know you too well. At the same time, I have made a discovery. There is one man in this world who is even a bigger idiot than you are.”
Judging by the calm tranquility with which the younger man received these rather forceful phrases, it is to be supposed that he had heard them before. He poured himself a pony of cognac and passed it to and fro under his nose.
“Of course,” he said, sniffing with appreciation, “you arouse my curiosity. Who may this inconceivable idiot be?”
The elder man drew in a mouthful of smoke and expelled it with the proper care and deliberation before he answered. “The man,” he said, “who, at your request, painted a monstrous, red, hideous sign on the Liberty Bell of our great country.” Jonathan Marston, the terrible, smiled reminiscently—a smile of wisdom and understanding.
“And by the way,” he continued presently, “it is really too bad that your little plot made it necessary to change your address. Of course that was why you missed my last cablegram. My advice to walk home was meant merely as a temporary pill. I wired you five hundred dollars the following day.”
Méthode Américaine
P IERRE D UMIAN SAT AT A TABLE in the Café Sigognac, sipping a glass of vichy and reading an article in L’Avenir . From time to time he gave an impatient grunt, which occasionally reached an audible ejaculation as his eye met a phrase particularly displeasing. Finally he tossed the paper onto the chair at his side and, placing his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, gazed steadily at his empty glass with an air of deep disgust.
Pierre never felt very well in the morning. True to his calling, he was always more or less uneasy in the sunlight; besides, one must pay for one’s indiscretions. But on this particular morning he was more than uncomfortable: he was in genuine distress. He was pondering over a real misfortune. What an ass he had been! Surely he had been insane. Nothing less could account for it. He cast a glance at the newspaper, extended his hand toward it, then nervously resumed his former position. The thing was absurd—absolutely absurd. How could it have been taken seriously? He would write an apology—a correction. But no, that was no longer possible. Decidedly, he must see it through; there was his reputation. Well, for the future he would be careful—very careful. He would be more than circumspect: he would be absolutely polite. But—Bah! What a horrible thought! Perhaps there would be no future? Perhaps this would be his last? This was too much for Pierre’s excited nerves. He straightened himself in his chair, muttered an oath half-aloud, and called to a waiter for another glass of vichy. It was at this moment that he felt a hand on
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