r with no character and fifteen pounds five and
three-pence in your pocket? Five hundred pounds was a fortune. It is
one now. And to be gained just by lending oneself to a good farce, which
didn't hurt anybody. You and your British morals! Bah!" said he, with a
fine flourish.

* * * * *

Aristide, after much parleying, was finally admitted into the nefarious
brotherhood. He was to retain his rank as the Baron de Mireilles, and
play the part of the pecuniarily inconvenienced nobleman forced to sell
some of his rare collection. Mr. Smith had heard of the Corot through
their dear old common friend, Jules Dancourt of Rheims, had mentioned it
alluringly to the Honourable Harry, had arranged for the Baron, who was
visiting England, to bring it over and dispatch it to Mr. Smith's house,
and on his return from Manchester to pay a visit to Mr. Smith, so that
he could meet the Honourable Harry in person. In whatever transaction
ensued Mr. Smith, so far as his prospective son-in-law was concerned,
was to be the purely disinterested friend. It was Aristide's wit which
invented a part for the supplanted M. Poiron. He should be the eminent
Parisian expert who, chancing to be in London, had been telephoned for
by the kind Mr. Smith.

"It would not be wise for M. Poiron," said Aristide, chuckling inwardly
with puckish glee, "to stay here for the night--or for two or three
days--or a week--like myself. He must go back to his hotel when the
business is concluded."

"_Mais, pardon!_" cried M. Poiron, who had been formally invited, and
had arrived late solely because he had missed his train at Manchester,
and come on by the next one. "I cannot go out into the wet, and I have
no hotel to go to."

Aristide appealed to his host. "But he is unreasonable, _cher ami_. He
must play his _role_. M. Poiron has been telephoned for. He can't
possibly stay here. Surely five hundred pounds is worth one little night
of discomfort? And there are a legion of hotels in London."

"Five hundred pounds!" exclaimed M. Poiron. "_Qu'est-ce que vous chantez
la?_ I want more than five hundred pounds."

"Then you're jolly well not going to get it," cried Mr. Smith, in a
rage. "And as for you"--he turned on Aristide--"I'll wring your infernal
neck yet."

"Calm yourself, calm yourself!" smiled Aristide, who was enjoying
himself hugely.

At this moment the door opened and Miss Christabel appeared. On seeing
the decorated stran