"True," the Englishman replied soberly. He began to think that
he had been over hasty in asserting his privileges. "But all
this has nothing to do with me. My name is John Hamilton. See,
it is engraved on the stock of the gun," catching it up and
holding it under the spectacled eyes, which still observed it
with some trepidation. "That is the name in my passports, in the
book down stairs, in the lining of my hat. I am sorry, since you
were only obeying orders, that my rough play has caused you
alarm." He unbolted the door. "Good morning."

The inspector left the room as swiftly as his short legs could
carry him, ignoring the ethics of common politeness. As he
stumbled down the stairs he cursed the minister of police for
requiring this spy work of him, and not informing him why it was
done. Ah, these cursed Anglais from Angleterre! They were all
alike, and this one was the worst he had ever encountered. And
those ugly black orifices in the gun! Peste! He would resign!
Yes, certainly he would resign.

As to the Englishman, he stood in the center of the room and
scratched his head. "Hang it, I've made an ass of myself. That
blockhead will have the gendarmes about my ears. If they arrest
me there will be the devil to pay. The Lord and the Baronet
Fitzgerald!" he repeated. He sat down on the edge of the bed,
and fell to laughing again. "Confound these picture-book
kingdoms! They always take themselves so seriously. Well, if the
gendarmes call this afternoon I'll not be at home. No, thank you.
I shall be hunting pheasants."