king our
cigars.

"Yes."

He looked out of the carriage window for some time, and then, turning,
he laid his hand on my knee.

"And it is not a game," he said, with his little laugh, which somehow
sounded quite different--less senile, less helpless. "It is not a
game, my friend!"

Chapter IX

Finance

"Il n'est pas si dangereux de faire du mal a la plupart des
hommes que de leur faire trop de bien."

We have seen how the Baron Giraud was called suddenly away from those
pleasures of the country, which he had taken up too late in life, as
many do, to the busy--ay, and stormy--scenes of Paris existence during
the winter before the great war. It was perhaps a week later--one
morning, in fact, soon after the New Year--that my business bade me
seek the Vicomte in his study adjoining my own. These two apartments,
it will be remembered, were separated by two doors and a small
intervening corridor. In the days when the Hotel Clericy was built,
walls had ears, and every keyhole might conceal a watching eye.
Builders understood the advantage of privacy, and did not construct
rooms where every movement and every spoken word may be heard in the
adjoining chambers.

No sound had come to me, and I had no reason for supposing the Vicomte
engaged at so early an hour. But as I entered the room, after
knocking and awaiting his permission as usual, I saw that some one
was leaving it by the other door. His back was presented to my sight,
but there was no mistaking the slim form and a nonchalant carriage.
Charles Miste again! And only the back of him once more.

"I have had a visit from my late secretary," said the Vicomte,
casually, and without looking up from his occupation of opening some
letters. There was no reason to suppose that he had seen me glance
towards the closing door, recognising him who went from it.

We were still engaged with the morning's correspondence, when a second
visitor was announced, and almost on the heels of the servant a little
fat man came puffing into the room, red-faced and agitated.

"Ah! Heaven be thanked that I have found you in," he gasped, and
although it was a cold morning, he wiped his pasty brow with a
gorgeous silk handkerchief whereupon shone the largest coronet
obtainable.

His face was quite white and flaccid, like the unbaked loaves into
which I had poked inquiring fingers in my childhood, and there was an
unwholesome look of fear in his little bright eyes. The