indow."

He laughed and shrugged his little shoulders.

"I dare say many Englishmen would not understand him."

"I am not of those," replied I. "I understand him and appreciate his
many able qualities."

From which it will be seen that I can lie as well as any man.

"The poor dear has been called to Paris, on his affairs. Not that I
understand them. I have no head for affairs. Even my tailor cheats
me--but what will you? He can cut a good coat, and one must forgive
him. My father's hotel in the Champs Elysees is uninhabitable at the
moment. The whitewashers!--and they sing so loud and so false, as
whitewashers ever do. The poor man is desolated in an _appartement_ in
the Hotel Bristol. I am all right. I have my own lodging--a mere
bachelor kennel--where I hope to see you soon and often."

He threw his card on the table, rising to go, and timing his departure
with that tact and grace which is only compassed by Frenchmen or
Spaniards.

Scarcely had I regained my room, after duly admiring Alphonse Giraud's
smart dog-cart, when the servant again appeared. The Baron Giraud had
arrived to see the Vicomte, who happened to be out. The affairs of the
Baron were urgent, and he desired to see me--was, indeed, awaiting me
with impatience in Monsieur de Clericy's study.

Thither I hastened, and found the great financier in that state of
perturbation and perspiration which the political crisis seemed to
have rendered chronic. He was, however, sufficiently himself to
remember that I was a paid dependent.

"How is this?" he cried. "I call to see the Vicomte on important
affairs, and he is out."

"It is," I replied, "that the Vicomte de Clericy is not a man of
affairs, but a gentleman of station and birth--that this is not an
office, but a nobleman's private house."

And I suppose I looked towards the door, for the Baron gasped out
something that might have been an apology, and looked redder in the
face.

"But, my good sir," he whined distractedly, "it is a matter of the
utmost gravity. It is a crisis in the money market. A turn of the
wheel may make me a poor man. Where is the Vicomte? Where are my
twenty million francs?"

"The Vicomte has gone out, as is his custom before dejeuner, and your
twenty millions are, so far as I know, safe in this house. I have not
the keeping of either."

"But you took the responsibility," snapped the Baron.

"For all that I am worth--namely, one hundred and twenty pounds a
year, out o