"Fery well, monsieur," and Pelletan crossed over to the desk and gave the boy his commands. The latter dragged away up the stair with a countenance in which grief and joy struggled for the mastery. "Anyt'ing else, monsieur?" asked the Frenchman, coming back.
"No, I don't think of anything just at this moment. But you do your part and I'll do mine. Now suppose you go out and get the notary, while I work my brain a bit."
Pelletan staggered rather than walked to the door, his head in his hands, fairly overwhelmed. A moment later, Rushford saw him hurrying down the street. He got out a third cigar and settled back in his chair with a chuckle of satisfaction.
"Maybe I'll get some fun out of this thing, after all," he said. "It'll offer a little diversion, anyway. Now, how shall we begin to advertise?"
"M. le Propriétaire, is he here?" inquired a voice, and Rushford looked around to see a man in resplendent uniform standing at the door.
"That's me, I reckon," he said.
"This is my first day," explained the man; "I will know monsieur hereafter. I have a telegram," and he produced it. "Monsieur will make acknowledgment here," he added, and held out a narrow white slip of paper.
Rushford signed his name mechanically, dropped a franc into the itching palm, and waited till the messenger went out. Then he looked at the address on the envelope. It was:
Proprietor Grand Hôtel Royal, Weet-sur-Mer.
"Well," he said, "it's mine—I guess there's no question of that—I'm the proprietor—pro tem," and he tore the envelope open. A low whistle escaped him as he read the message. Then he slapped his leg and laughed. "It's a freak of the market," he cried. "A freak of the market! And it's just my luck to be in on the ground floor!"