His face was quite white and flaccid, like the unbaked loaves into which I had poked inquiring fingers in my childhood, and there was an unwholesome look of fear in his little bright eyes. The Baron had been badly scared, and lacked the manhood to conceal his panic.
"Ah! Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" he gasped again, and looked at me with insolent inquiry. He was, it must be remembered, a very rich man, and could afford to be ill-mannered. "I must see you, Vicomte."
"You do see me, my friend," replied the old nobleman, in his most amiable manner. "And at your service."
"But—" and the fluttering handkerchief indicated myself.
"Ah! Let me introduce you. Monsieur Howard, my secretary—the Baron Giraud."
I bowed as one only bows to money-bags, and the Baron stared at me. Only very rich or very high-born persons fully understand the introductory stare.
"You may speak before Monsieur Howard," said the Baron, quietly. "He is not a secretary pour rire."
Had Miste been a secretary pour rire, I wondered?
I drew forward a chair and begged the Baron to be seated. He accepted my invitation coldly, and seating himself seemed to lose nothing in stature. There are some men who should always be seated. It is, of course, a mistake to judge of one's neighbour at first sight, but it seemed to me that the Baron Giraud only wanted a little courage to be a first-class scoundrel. He fumbled in his pocket, glancing furtively at me the while. At length he found a letter, which he handed to the Vicomte.
"I have received that," he said. "It is anonymous, as you will see, and cleverly done. There is absolutely no clue. It was sent to my place of business, and my people there telegraphed for me in Provence. Of course I came at once. One must sacrifice everything to affairs."