“I seem to be in congenial company,” said Aristide. “I don’t think our friend M. Poiron has more scruples than he has right to the ribbon of the Legion of Honour which he is wearing.”
“How much will you take to go out? I have a cheque-book handy.”
Mr. Smith moved a few steps from the hearthrug. Aristide sat down in the arm-chair. An engaging, fantastic impudence was one of the charms of Aristide Pujol.
“I’ll take five hundred pounds,” said he, “to stay in.”
“Stay in?” Mr. Smith grew apoplectic.
“Yes,” said Aristide. “You can’t do without me. Your daughter and your servants know me as M. le Baron—by the way, what is my name? And where is my historic château in Languedoc?”
“Mireilles,” said M. Poiron, who was sitting grim and taciturn on one of the dining-room chairs. “And the place is the same, near Montpellier.”
“I like to meet an intelligent man,” said Aristide.
“I should like to wring your infernal neck,” said the kind Mr. Smith. “But, by George, if we do let you in you’ll have to sign me a receipt implicating yourself up to the hilt. I’m not going to be put into the cart by you, you can bet your life.”
“Anything you like,” said Aristide, “so long as we all swing together.”