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There, a few yards in
front of me, at the outer edge of the terrace of a cafe, clad in
his eternal silk hat, frock coat, and yellow gloves, sat Professor
Anastasius Papadopoulos in earnest conversation with a seedy stranger of
repellent mien. The latter was clean-shaven and had a broken nose,
and wore a little round, soft felt hat. The dwarf was facing me. As
he caught sight of me a smile of welcome overspread his Napoleonic
features. He rose, awaited my approach, and, bareheaded, made his usual
sweeping bow, which he concluded by resting his silk hat on the pit of
his stomach. I lifted my hat politely and would have passed on, but he
stood in my path. I extended my hand. He took it after the manner of a
provincial mayor receiving royalty.
"_Couvrez-vous, Monsieur, je vous en prie_," said I.
He covered his head. "Monsieur," said he, "I beseech you to be seated,
and do me the honour of joining me in the coffee and excellent cognac of
this establishment."
"Willingly," said I, mindful of Lola's tale of the long knife which he
carried concealed about his person.


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