O'Toole began to understand. He understood, at all events, that for him
there was to be no more supper. If two were to make themselves scarce,
he knew that he would be one of the two.

"Very well," said he, heaving a sigh which made the glasses on the table
dance, and laying his napkin down he got up. To his surprise, however,
he was bidden to stay.

"Gaydon and I will go," said Wogan. "Jack will find out the fellow's
business."

Misset nodded his head, took up his knife and fork again. He leaned
across the table to O'Toole as the others stepped out of the room.

"You speak only French, Lucius. You come from Savoy." He had no time to
say more, for the new-comer stamped blustering down the passage and
flung into the room. The man, as Gaydon had remarked, was in a mighty
ill-humour; his clothes and his face were splashed with mud, and he
seemed, moreover, in the last stage of exhaustion. For though he bawled
for the landlord it was in a weak, hoarse voice, which did not reach
beyond the door.

Misset looked at him with sympathy.

"You have no doubt come far," said he; "and the landlord's a laggard.
Here's something that may comfort you till he comes;" and he filled a
glass half full with red Tyrol wine from the bottle at his elbow.