l the place the 'Hotel de la Tete
Bondon.'"

[Illustration: HE BURST INTO SHRIEKS OF LAUGHTER]

Early the next morning Aristide started on his quest, without informing
the good Bocardon of his intentions. He would go straight to Avignon, as
the more likely place. Inquiries at the various hotels would soon enable
him to hunt down his quarry; and then--he did not quite know what would
happen then--but it would be something picturesque, something entirely
unforeseen by Bondon, something to be thrillingly determined by the
inspiration of the moment. In any case he would wipe the stain from the
family escutcheon. By this time he had convinced himself that he
belonged to the Bocardon family.

The only other occupant of the first-class compartment was an elderly
Englishwoman of sour aspect. Aristide, his head full of Zette and
Bondon, scarcely noticed her. The train started and sped through the
sunny land of vine and olive.

They had almost reached Tarascon when a sudden thought hit him between
the eyes, like the blow of a fist. He gasped for a moment, then he burst
into shrieks of laughter, kicking his legs up and down and waving his
arms in maniacal mirth. After that he rose and danced. The sour-faced
Englishwoman, in mortal terror, fled into the corridor. She must have
reported Aristide's behaviour to the guard, for in a minute or two that
official appeared at the doorway.

"_Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?_"

Aristide paused in his demonstrations of merriment. "Monsieur," said he,
"I have just discovered what I am going to do to M. Bondon."

Delight bubbled out of him as he walked from the Avignon Railway Station
up the Cours de la Republique. The wretch Bondon lay at his mercy. He
had not proceeded far, however, when his quick eye caught sight of an
object in the ramshackle display of a curiosity dealer's. He paused in
front of the window, fascinated. He rubbed his eyes.

"No," said he; "it is not a dream. The _bon Dieu_ is on my side."

He went into the shop and bought the object. It was a pair of handcuffs.

At a little after three o'clock the small and dilapidated hotel omnibus
drove up before the Hotel de la Curatterie, and from it descended
Aristide Pujol, radiant-eyed, and a scrubby little man with a goatee
beard, pince-nez, and a dome-like forehead, who, pale and trembling,
seemed stricken with a great fear. It was Bondon. Together they entered
the little hall. As soon as Bocardon saw his enemy his eyes blazed wit