“Well, well! it is not thirteen, nor five, but twenty-eight!
Twenty-eight! And I was suspecting----”
“But, sir----” we cried all together excitedly.
From beneath the cloak of fur he thrust out his hand, which, in spite
of its velvet glove, was none the less a mailed fist.
“Be silent, gentlemen! You do not understand. Twenty-eight!”
We looked at each other as if we had suddenly gone mad. M.
Perrier-Langlade, carried away by sublime meditation, walked to and fro
repeating, “Twenty-eight! Twenty-eight!”
I noticed his voice had almost a provincial inflection, and was not
without geniality. For a few moments he repeated, first shaking his
head, then with increasing joy, “Twenty-eight! Twenty-eight!” And I was
convinced that to him figures did not mean the same thing as they do to
you or me.
Then he abruptly saluted, with a supreme, imperious courtesy.
“Good-bye, gentlemen! Twenty-eight! Twenty-eight!”
And he went off to his car, rubbing his hands together, with the savage
joy of a man who has got hold of some absolute truth.