"Say, that's simple. Has he any grandfathers alive?"
"It's a fine story," was the quiet response. "I only learned it a year or two back, when I found some of my mother's papers. Louis de Paleologue was the man who took her over to America when General d'Arny shot my father. There was a pile of correspondence between them, and it does the man great credit. If I find him living I'll give him a million dollars, if he'll take them."
Bertie Morris whistled.
"You don't suggest a preliminary canter. Why not try it on the dog? He's willing."
"Most dogs are. My world is all barking. You find Paleologue for me, and see what Father Christmas puts in your stocking. He's the only man in Europe I ever did want to see outside my own business. It's natural that I can't find him."
"Can you tell me anything about him? Where did he live? What was he? For whom did he work? I'm right out for this, Mr. Faber."
Faber smiled.
"He was an artist who drew small pictures with a large genius. They say he worked for Hachette. The last letters speaks of his marriage—it must have been written many years ago. I cabled to Paris when it came into my hands, and the answer back from your office was that he had gone to the East. That means Paleologue was a Roumanian, and he's gone home. I suppose I shall have to follow him."
"It would be a bully trip, anyway. Why not do the Balkans in a motor? There was a chap here last month who had just come back. They didn't shoot him this time."
"Well, I guess they won't shoot me, either. I'm buying a yacht directly. Now, let's go and lunch. Your young Raphaels are rather greasy. I think I'd like to wash."