"Who--" He begins to ask, but right. A coworker, apparently, and one who's out before he can thank or offer any kind of farewell. That sort of brisk fussing, he thinks, seems to suit Feuilly perfectly. And he's glad, as a shiver runs through him-- does that mean the fever's getting worse, or better? He can never remember-- that there is someone to do it-- that Feuilly wouldn't have been left to confusedly wander the streets of Paris.

"I will have that Michel out for her, if he won't go," Harry says, because really, it seems only right to offer something.