“Here, you!” cried the kind Mr. Smith, striding up to Aristide, with a very red face. “Will you have the kindness to tell me who the devil you are?”
Aristide rose, and, putting his hands behind the tails of his frock-coat, stood smiling radiantly on the hearthrug. A wit much less alert than my irresponsible friend’s would have instantly appreciated the fact that the real Simon Pure had arrived on the scene.
“I, my dear friend,” said he, “am the Baron de Je ne Sais Plus.”
“You’re a confounded impostor,” spluttered Mr. Smith.
“And this gentleman here to whom I have not had the pleasure of being introduced?” asked Aristide, blandly.
“I am M. Poiron, monsieur, the agent of Messrs. Brauneberger and Compagnie, art dealers, of the Rue Notre Dame des Petits Champs of Paris,” said the new-comer, with an air of defiance.
“Ah, I thought you were the Baron,” said Aristide.
“There’s no blooming Baron at all about it!” screamed Mr. Smith. “Are you Poiron, or is he?”
“I would not have a name like Poiron for anything in the world,” said Aristide. “My name is Aristide Pujol, soldier of fortune, at your service.”
“How the blazes did you get here?”