Page:The little blue devil (IA littlebluedevil00mackiala).pdf/122

otherwise; besides, by this time Tony was due for a change, though he had been enjoying the life he saw—and saving money at that.

George Derwent came down the worn marble steps of the Hôtel de l’Europe at Pisa, wishing that the fried-fish shop was not quite so near. He would willingly have lodged in something less than an ancient palace, if only there had been feebler smells there. There was a strong reek of petrol this afternoon too—another of these beastly motors just arrived—but that was a clean smell, at any rate. The owners of the car passed him on the steps, English people, obviously. Perhaps they were only there for afternoon tea, for the chauffeur did not seem to be going round to the garage; he had alighted and was standing by the car, a tall, hard-looking figure in khaki, young, like most chauffeurs, and younger than most. He turned idly as Derwent came down, and a flush lightened the whole meaning of his dark face.

“Derwent!” he said. George Derwent paused, puzzled.

“I’m not sure———” he apologised, “I———”

“I don’t wonder; it’s a long time! And I’ve changed a good deal, more than you have. But you remember Antoine Ste. Croix?”

“Tony?—Tony! . . . I’ve thought of you often enough since that time in Paris—but—It’s sudden. What are you doing here? Can we have a yarn?”

“You see what I’m doing. I think we can. Once they get in they’ll find they want to rest. In a few minutes they’ll send out to say I can take the car round to the garage, I bet. Then I’ll come and talk—where? I won’t keep you waiting. There’ll be nothing to do to the car—nothing that can’t wait till this evening, that is.”

“Oh, anywhere. Meanwhile, I’ll stay here and get off