Page:Vance--Terence O'Rourke.djvu/67

 "The divvle!" thought O'Rourke. "And, by that token, I've heard of ye—ye little scamp!" But aloud he returned the greeting blandly.

"Thank you, Beatrix," continued Lemercier. "And—"

"I am going home," she replied. "Good-night, messieurs. Monsieur le Colonel O'Rourke, au revoir."

Lemercier, rather than at once returning with O'Rourke to his companions, lingered until his sister was out of earshot, with the manner of one who has something on his mind.

He was very youthful in appearance,—a mere slip of a boy, attired a trifle too exquisitely in the positive extreme of the fashion. No force of character was to be seen charted upon his smooth, lineless countenance—just then somewhat flushed; though whether from alcohol or excitement, O'Rourke could not determine.

His eyes, which were small, were of a vague and indefinite gray, his hair light, of a neutral tint, and inclined to fall across his forehead in a stringy bang. His mouth was weak, lacking character, his nose a smooth arch, conveying no impression of mental strength. As a rule, he kept his hands uneasily in his pockets; at other times they were constantly busy with some object—his watch chain, or the heavy, gem-encrusted rings with which his slight fingers were laden.

O'Rourke was inclined to take his measure thoroughly, not only because of the strange and interesting manner in which they had been thrown together, but also because "le petit Lemercier" was a national character of France—or the national laughing stock.

For some years this weakling, the enormously wealthy son of a rich chocolate manufacturer recently deceased, had kept Paris agape with his harebrained pranks, his sybaritic enter-