If in the course of their chequered career they ever come across him, they will mention to him that you are waiting for him.
Meanwhile a stentorian-voiced official is shouting that your train is on the point of leaving.

You console yourself with the reflection that it might have been more.

It always might have been more; sometimes it is.
His Little Mistakes.
A waiter at the Gare du Nord, in Brussels, on one occasion pressed upon me a five-franc piece, a small Turkish coin the value of which was unknown to me, and remains so to this day, a distinctly bad two francs, and from a quarter of a pound to six ounces of centimes, as change for a twenty-franc note, after deducting the price of a cup of coffee.

He put it down with the air of one subscribing to a charity.

We looked at one another.