gence at once burst again into
the splendour of existence. Apparently the fitful career of the Agence
Pujol lasted some years. Whenever a chance of more remunerative
employment turned up, Aristide took it and dissolved the Agence.
Whenever outrageous fortune chivied him with slings and arrows penniless
to Paris, there was always the Agence waiting to be resuscitated.

It was during one of these periodic flourishings of the Agence Pujol
that Aristide met the Ducksmiths.

Business was slack, few guests were at the hotel, and of those few none
desired to be personally conducted to the Louvre or Notre Dame or the
monument in the Place de la Bastille. They mostly wore the placid
expression of folks engaged in business affairs instead of the worried
look of pleasure-seekers.

"My good Bocardon," said Aristide, lounging by the bureau and addressing
his friend the manager, "this is becoming desperate. In another minute I
shall take you out by main force and show you the Pont Neuf."

At that moment the door of the stuffy salon opened, and a travelling
Briton, whom Aristide had not seen before, advanced to the bureau and
inquired his way to the Madeleine. Aristide turned on him like a flash.

"Sir," said he, extracting documents from his pockets with lightning
rapidity, "nothing would give me greater pleasure than to conduct you
thither. My card. My tariff. My advertisement." He pointed to the
placard. "I am the managing director of the Agence Pujol, under the
special patronage of this hotel. I undertake all travelling
arrangements, from the Moulin Rouge to the Pyramids, and, as you see, my
charges are moderate."

The Briton, holding the documents in a pudgy hand, looked at the
swift-gestured director with portentous solemnity. Then, with equal
solemnity, he looked at Bocardon.

"Monsieur Ducksmith," said the latter, "you can repose every confidence
in Monsieur Aristide Pujol."

"Umph!" said Mr. Ducksmith.

After another solemn inspection of Aristide, he stuck a pair of
gold-rimmed glasses on his fleshy nose and perused the documents. He was
a fat, heavy man of about fifty years of age, and his scanty hair was
turning grey. His puffy cheeks hung jowl-like, giving him the appearance
of some odd dog--a similarity greatly intensified by the eye-sockets,
the lower lids of which were dragged down in the middle, showing the red
like a bloodhound's; but here the similarity ended, for the man's eyes,
dull and blue, had the uns