Which was true enough.

I thought of Monsieur Miste's graceful figure--of his slim neck, and longed to get my fingers around it.

I had only seen his back, after all--and had a singular desire to know the look of his face.

I am no great reader, but have met some words which go well with the thoughts I harboured at this time of Monsieur Charles Miste, for I could "Read rascal in the motions of his back, And scoundrel in the subtle sliding knee." Seeing that I had risen, the Vicomte asked me where I was going, in a tone of anxiety which I had noted in his voice of late, and, in my vanity, attributed to the fact that he was in some degree dependent upon myself.
"I am going to see John Turner, and then I am going to seek Charles Miste until I find him." Before I knew what had happened, Alphonse Giraud was shaking my hand, and would have embraced me had he not remembered in time his English clothes, and the reserve of manner usually observed inside such habiliments.
"Ah! my friend," he said, desperately, "the world is large." "Yes; but not roomy enough for Monsieur Charles Miste and your humble servant." I spent the remainder of the day with John Turner, who was cynical enough about the matter, but gave me, nevertheless, much valuable information.
"You may be sure," he said, "that I did not sign the cheques until Clericy and the Baron had handed over the equivalent in notes and gold.

One man's scare is another man's profit." And my stout friend chuckled.