man.

The Erringtons left that evening. Aristide waylaid them as they were
entering the hotel omnibus, with a preposterous bouquet of flowers which
he presented to Betty, whose pretty face was hidden by a motor-veil. He
bowed, laid his hand on his heart and said: "_Adieu, mademoiselle._"

"No," she said in a low voice, but most graciously, "_Au revoir_,
Monsieur Pujol."

For the next few days Aix seemed to be tame and colourless. In an
inexplicable fashion, too, it had become unprofitable. Aristide no
longer knew that he was going to win; and he did not win. He lost
considerably. So much so that on the morning when he was to draw the
cash for the cheque, at the Credit Lyonnais, he had only fifty pounds
and some odd silver left. Aristide looking at the remainder rather
ruefully made a great resolution. He would gamble no more. Already he
was richer than he had ever been in his life. He would leave Aix.
_Tiens!_ why should he not go to his good friends the Bocardons at
Nimes, bringing with him a gold chain for Bocardon and a pair of
ear-rings for the adorable Zette? There he would look about him. He
would use the thousand pounds as a stepping-stone to legitimate fortune.
Then he would visit the Erringtons in England, and if the beautiful Miss
Betty smiled on him--why, after all, _sacrebleu_ he was an honest man,
without a feather on his conscience.

So, jauntily swinging his cane, he marched into the office of the Credit
Lyonnais, went into the inner room and explained his business.

"Ah, your cheque, monsieur, that we were to collect. I am sorry. It has
come back from the London bankers."

"How come back?"

"It has not been honoured. See, monsieur. 'Not known. No account.'" The
cashier pointed to the grim words across the cheque.

"_Comprends pas_," faltered Aristide.

"It means that the person who gave you the cheque has no account at this
bank."

Aristide took the cheque and looked at it in a dazed way.

"Then I do not get my twenty-five thousand francs?"

"Evidently not," said the cashier.

Aristide stood for a while stunned. What did it mean? His thousand
pounds could not be lost. It was impossible. There was some mistake. It
was an evil dream. With a heavy weight on the top of his head, he went
out of the Credit Lyonnais and mechanically crossed the little street
separating the Bank from the cafe on the Place Carnot. There he sat
stupidly and wondered. The waiter hovered in front of him. "_Monsieur