"There is nothing wrong with me," he declared. "I left Stephano's to—as they say in this country—better myself. I am in charge here—next to Monsieur Giatron himself. If Monsieur Giatron should go back to Italy I should be manager. It seemed like a good post. Perhaps I was foolish to leave."
"Louis," Mr. Bundercombe protested, "I guess I didn't come round here to listen to lies. You and I had some little dealings together and I feel I've the right to insist on the truth. Now, then, don't give us any more trouble—there's a good fellow! If you'd rather talk to me alone invite me into the office or behind that desk."
Louis looked round the room, which was almost empty, save for the waiters preparing the tables for supper.
"Mr. Bundercombe," he said, with a little gesture of resignation, "it is because of those dealings that I came to trouble."
Mr. Bundercombe eyed him steadily.
"Go on!" he ordered.
Louis moved closer still to the table.
"It was those banknotes, Mr. Bundercombe," he confessed. "You gave me one packet to be destroyed in the kitchen. I obeyed; but I looked at them first. Never did I see such wonderful work! Those notes—every one seemed real! Every one, as I put it into the fire, gave my heart a pang.
"And then, the other time—when you slipped them under the table to me because Mr. Cullen was about! I took them, too, to the fire. I destroyed one, two, three, four, five—one dozen—two dozen; and then I came to the last two or three, and my fingers—they went slow. I could not bear it. I thought what could be done. My wife she was not well. I could send her to Italy. I owe a little bill. The tips—they had not been good lately. Behold! There was one ten-pound note left when all the others were destroyed. I put him in my waistcoat pocket."
"Go on!" Mr. Bundercombe said encouragingly. "No one is blaming you. Upon my word, it sounds natural enough."