8
I Enter the Service of the French Republic
I WAS now seated in the back of a large open touring car between the two men, the one on my left a complete stranger and the one on my right the little Frenchman with the brown eyes, whom I had met in the train from Lausanne on the previous evening, and whose despatch case had fallen open at my feet. I had recognized him at once. Those brown eyes of his were unmistakable. At the present moment they twinkled merrily, and his whole appearance was one of suppressed high spirits and delight at what he evidently regarded — which indeed it was — as a wholly unexpected encounter.
His companion was tall and dark. He had a thin kindly face with an indiscriminate sandy moustache cut close and almost level with the ends of his mouth.
Uncle James of Jeb
