Alphonso succeeded the red-headed man in the chair presided over by the count.
“I am incognito,” said the latter, in a low voice. “I have been reduced to poverty by the rascality of a relative. They don’t know me here in the shop.”
“You don’t say so!” ejaculated Mr. Jones, much impressed.
“They think I am a common man. It would not do to tell them.”
“Does Mr. Ingalls know?” asked Alphonso.
“Yes, he knows how I am reduced; but he does not respect me the less. May I rely upon your secrecy, also?”
“Certainly, my lord—I mean, sir,” said Mr. Jones, beginning to think it was all right again. “Do you think you will ever recover your estates?”
“Don’t speak so loud! Yes, I am almost sure of it. In that case, I shall expect you to visit me at my chateau.”
“Thank you. I shall be most happy.”
“How strange it seems to be shaved by a count!” thought Alphonso. “But I really wish he wasn’t a barber. Couldn’t he get something else to do?”