As he picked up his stick, he heard a footstep behind him, and turning,
saw an ill-dressed, sullen-looking man. The light from one of the lamps
near by shone full on him; and something about the stout, shambling
figure, or the dirty evil-browed face, seemed dimly familiar.
To his surprise, the man nodded at him with a sulky frown, and said, in
a thick voice:
"Good-evening! Don't remember me, I s'pose?"
"No, I do not," admitted Leroy, as he scanned the bleared, swollen
countenance before him.
"Ah! you swells 'as bad memories; I ain't forgotten you, so don't you
think it!"
Leroy gazed at him calmly; he thought the man was intoxicated.
"Do you want anything of me?" he asked, as he pulled on his glove.
"That depends," responded the man, moving forward so that he stood right
in Adrien's path. "You're Mr. Leroy, ain't you?"
"I am," said Leroy. "What is it you want?"
"I wants to ask you a question," returned the other, bringing his face
closer to Adrien, who recoiled involuntarily--the very smell of the
fustian clothes offending his delicate nostrils.
The man noticed this, and frowned even more heavily.
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