"
"Bath... shave me!"
M. Max began to rub his eyes and to stare uncomprehendingly at the
speaker.
"Yes, sir; good morning, sir,"--there was another bow and more rubbing
of palms.
"Ah!--of course! Morbleu! This is Paris...."
"No, sir, excuse me, sir, London. Bath hot or cold, sir?"
"Cold," replied M. Max, struggling upright with apparent difficulty;
"yes,--cold."
"Very good, sir. Have you brought your own razor, sir?"
"Yes, yes," muttered Max--"in the bag--in that bag."
"I will fill the bath, sir."
The bath being duly filled, M. Max, throwing about his shoulders a
magnificent silk kimono which he found upon the armchair, steered a
zigzag course to the bathroom. His tooth-brush had been put in place by
the attentive valet; there was an abundance of clean towels, soaps,
bath salts, with other necessities and luxuries of the toilet. M. Max,
following his bath, saw fit to evidence a return to mental clarity; and
whilst he was being shaved he sought to enter into conversation with the
valet. But the latter was singularly reticent, and again M. Max changed
his tactics. He perceived here a golden opportunity which he must not
allow to slip through his fingers.
"Would you like to earn a hundred pounds?" he demanded abruptly, gazing
into the beady eyes of the man bending over him.
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