“Your servant asked me if I was a French gentleman from Manchester. I was. He said that Mr. Smith had sent his carriage for me. I thought it hospitable of the kind Mr. Smith. I entered the carriage—et voilà!”
“Then clear out of here this very minute,” said Mr. Smith, reaching forward his hand to the bell-push.
Aristide checked his impulsive action.
“Pardon me, dear host,” said he. “It is raining dogs and cats outside. I am very comfortable in your luxurious home. I am here, and here I stay.”
“I’m shot if you do,” said the kind Mr. Smith, his face growing redder and uglier. “Now, will you go out, or will you be thrown out?”
Aristide, who had no desire whatever to be ejected from this snug nest into the welter of the wet and friendless world, puffed at his cigar, and looked at his host with the irresistible drollery of his eyes.
“You forget, mon cher ami,” said he, “that neither the beautiful Miss Christabel nor her affianced, the Honourable Harry, M.P., would care to know that the talented Gottschalk got only eight pounds, not even guineas, for painting that three-thousand-pound picture.”
“So it’s blackmail, eh?”
“Precisely,” said Aristide, “and I don’t blush at it.”
“You infernal little blackguard!”