Mr.Durance had spoken of big battles round about the town of Dreux; also of a wonderful Mausoleum there, not equally interesting.

The little man was in deeper gloom than a day sobering on crimson dusk when the train stopped and his quick ear caught the sound of the station, as pronounced by his friend at Rouen.
He handed his card to the station-master.

A glance, and the latter signalled to a porter, saying: 'Paradis'; and the porter laid hold of Skepsey's bag.

Skepsey's grasp was firm; he pulled, the porter pulled.
Skepsey heard explanatory speech accompanying a wrench.

He wrenched back with vigour, and in his own tongue exclaimed, that he held to the bag because his master's letters were in the bag, all the way from England.
For a minute, there was a downright trial of muscle and will: the porter appeared furiously excited, Skepsey had a look of cooled steel.