"The best!" replied the Frenchman in a low, quick tone. "Père Mouche has had his ragoût, and afterwards another that was so hot that—would you believe it?—it melted the dishes. And, besides, he has had a stroke of good fortune in getting rid of some other stock, a lot of it, on the continent. There will be a nice bank account in a day or so—to-morrow, if you want any." His voice grew suddenly less buoyant. "But just the same, it is well that we are taking a holiday. It has caused a furor. The papers, the Earl, Scotland Yard—how they buzz! And the Prefecture more suspicious than ever! Your English journals are like spoiled children. They will not stop crying, and they are very bad tempered about it. This morning, for instance. I have one here. Shall I read to you what it says?"
"Good heavens—no!" expostulated Captain Francis Newcombe hastily. "Everybody from the Earl down to Runnells has read that stuff to me for a week! If you want to do anything that smacks of intelligence you can get me another drink in place of the one I knocked over when you came in—you know where the Scotch is; and if you want to do any reading see if there is any mail for me. I mentioned letters but the doctor said no. However, the doctor is gone, so look on the desk in the living room."
"All right," said the Frenchman, as he turned briskly away. "Un petit coup is decidedly in order this morning. I will have one with you."
He was back presently from his errand. He filled the glasses, and placed one in Captain Francis Newcombe's hand.
"Salut, mon capitaine!" he said. "Here's to the cash the little Père Mouche is getting ready for us—a fat, a very nice fat little dividend!"
"Good!" said the ex-captain of territorials. "How about the mail? Any letters?"
"I've got them here," Paul Cremarre answered. "There were only three."
"Well, what are they?" demanded Captain Francis Newcombe.
The Frenchman examined the first of the letters in his hand.
"A city letter from Hipplewaite, Jones & Simpkins, Solicitors—"