the Mayor, if you please."
"Upstairs; take the first turn to the right, and then--"
"But surely I know that voice!" said some one behind Hyde, who had
turned round quickly.
"What, you!" went on the speaker; "my excellent English comrade--here
in Paris! Oh, joyful surprise!"
"Is it you? M. Anatole Belhomme, of the Voltigeurs? You have left the
Crimea? Is Sebastopol taken? the Russians all massacred, then?"
"It is I who was massacred--almost. I received a ball, here in my
leg, and was invalided last month. But you also have suffered,
comrade." And Anatole pointed to Hyde's arm in a sling.
"Nothing much. Only the kick of a horse; it does not prevent me moving
about, as you see."
"But what brings you to Paris, my good friend?"
"I am seeking some family documents--to substantiate an inheritance.
They are here in the archives of the Mairie."
"How? You were seeking the office of M. the Mayor? You?" And M.
Anatole proceeded to scrutinise Hyde slowly and minutely from head to
foot. "You, a veteran with your arm in a sling, and that brown
beard--brown mixed with grey. It is strange--most strange."
"Well, comrade," replied Hyde, laughing a little uneasily, "you ought
to know me again."
"Lose no time, friend, in getting what you want from the Mairie. Come:
I will go with you.
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