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 asked with great kindness and concern whether the gentleman was going down to lunch.

“No, I’m not,” growled Prokop.

Mr. Paul bowed and disappeared. In a minute he had returned, pushing before him a little table on wheels, covered with glasses, fragile porcelain and silver. “What wine, please?” he asked tenderly. Prokop muttered something so as to be left in peace.

Mr. Paul went on tiptoe to the door and there took from two white paws a large dish. “Consommé de tortue,” he whispered and poured some out for Prokop, upon which the dish was borne away in the white claws. By the same route there arrived fish, meat, salad, and things which Prokop had never eaten in his life and did not even know how to deal with; but he was shy of exhibiting his embarrassment before Mr. Paul. To his surprise his wrath had somehow disappeared. “Sit down,” he ordered Paul, savouring the dry white wine with his nose and palate. Mr. Paul bowed considerately but remained standing.

“Listen, Paul,” Prokop continued, “do you think that I’m in prison here?”

Mr. Paul politely shrugged his shoulders: “I am unable to say, please.”

“Which is the way out?”

Mr. Paul reflected for a moment. “Along the main road and then to the left, please. Will the gentleman take coffee?”

“Well, perhaps.” Prokop burnt his throat with the superior Mocha, after which Mr. Paul handed him all the perfumes of Araby, contained in a