Satisfied with his scrutiny, he produced a pocket-flask, and taking off the silver cup with which it was mounted, filled it with the contents of the flask, and then seizing the thin arm of the sleeper, rudely shook it. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. "Now—begin. " "Oh, that!" she said, with a deprecating gesture. She ran to the lamp and extinguished it. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. ” With a swift movement she gained the bell and rang it. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you.
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