"We have a little
account to settle, you and I, is it not so?"
Fat Monsieur Lefevre rose gallantly to the occasion. He bowed Emile
into the room, locked the door by which they had entered, and with
another bow and a muttered apology scuttled through the passage into
the back regions. Two minutes later he made his reappearance in the
_cafe_ by the front way, and went to his place behind the counter with
the satisfied face of a successful diplomatist.
His little sanctum was typical in its arrangement of the Parisian
_bourgeois_.
Numerous picture post-cards of a famous chanteuse of the Folies
Bergeres proclaimed Monsieur's taste in beauty. For the rest,
everything was neat and rather bare of furniture. There were chairs
symmetrically arranged like sentinels along the walls, tinted lace
curtains, a gilded mirror, and a few doubtful coloured pictures, all of
women. An unshaded electric light flared in a corner. Arithelli stood
resting one hand on the round polished table in the centre of the
apartment. Her dark blue dress was torn in two places, and smeared
with patches of dust.
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