with the portrait, Monsieur, that he loses it."

"Loses it!" cried Auguste.

"Precisely," said his father, dryly, "for Mr. Ritchie tells me he found
it--at Madame Bouvet's, was it not, Monsieur?"

Auguste looked at me.

"Mille diables!" he said, and sat down again heavily.

"Mr. Ritchie has returned it to your sister, a service which puts him
heavily in our debt," said Monsieur de St. Gre. "Now, sir," he added to
me, rising, "you have had a tiresome day. I will show you to your room,
and in the morning we will begin our--investigations."

He clapped his hands, the silent mulatto appeared with a new candle, and
I followed my host down the gallery to a room which he flung open at the
far end. A great four-poster bedstead was in one corner, and a polished
mahogany dresser in the other.

"We have saved some of our family furniture from the fire, Mr. Ritchie,"
said Monsieur de St. Gre; "that bed was brought from Paris by my father
forty years ago. I hope you will rest well."

He set the candle on the table, and as he bowed there was a trace of
an enigmatical smile about his mouth. How much he knew of Auguste's
transaction I could not fathom, but the matter and the scarcely
creditable part I had played in it kept me awake far into the night. I
was just falling into a troubled sleep when a footstep on the gallery
startled me back to consciousness. It was followed by a light tap on the
door.

"Monsieur Reetchie," said a voice.

It was Monsieur Auguste. He was not an imposing figure in his nightrail,
and by the light of the carefully shaded candle he held in his hand I
saw that he had hitherto deceived me in the matter of his calves. He
stood peering at me as I lay under the mosquito bar.

"How is it I can thank you, Monsieur!" he exclaimed in a whisper.

"By saying nothing, Monsieur," I answered.

"You are noble, you are generous, and--and one day I will give you the
money back," he added with a burst of magniloquence. "You have behave
very well, Monsieur, and I mek you my friend. Behol' Auguste de St. Gre,
entirely at your service, Monsieur." He made a sweeping bow that might
have been impressive save for the nightrail, and sought my hand, which
he grasped in a fold of the mosquito bar.

"I am overcome, Monsieur," I said.

"Monsieur Reetchie, you are my friend, my intimate" (he put an aspirate
on the word). "I go to tell you one leetle secret. I find that I can
repose confidence in you. My father does not un