'Will Brother Simard come forward?' asked the president.
My former subordinate removed his eyes from me, slowly rose from his
chair, and shuffled up to the president's table.
'Brother Ducharme,' said that official to me in a quiet tone, 'I
introduce you to Brother Simard, whom you are commissioned to see into
a place of safety when he has dispersed the procession.'
Simard turned his fishy goggle eyes upon me, and a grin disclosed
wolf-like teeth. He held out his hand, which, rising to my feet, I
took. He gave me a flabby grasp, and all the time his inquiring eyes
travelled over me.
'You don't look up to much,' he said. 'What are you?'
'I am a teacher of the French language in London.'
'Umph!' growled Simard, evidently in no wise prepossessed by my
appearance. 'I thought you weren't much of a fighter. The gendarmes
will make short work of this fellow,' he growled to the chairman.
'Brother Ducharme is vouched for by the whole English circle,' replied
the president firmly.
'Oh, the English! I think very little of them. Still, it doesn't
matter,' and with a shrug of the shoulders he shuffled to his seat
again, leaving me standing there in a very embarrassed state of mind;
my brain in a whirl.
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