Their visitor was Zertho. He was in evening clothes, having left the theatre early to stroll round there.
“Well, Mother Valentin,” he exclaimed in French, tossing his hat carelessly upon the table, and sinking into a chair. “Rheumatism still bad—eh?”
“Ah, yes, m’sieur,” croaked the old woman in the Provençal patois, “still very bad,” and grunting, she rose, and hobbled out of the room.
“And how’s business?” Zertho inquired of the other.
“Pretty fair. Lots of mugs in the town just now,” he smiled, speaking in Cockney English.
“That handbill of yours is about the cheekiest bit of literature I’ve ever come across,” he said, nodding towards one of the remarkable documents tacked upon the wall.
“It has drawn ’em like honey draws flies,” said the other, smiling and regarding it with pride. “The offer to pay the losses does it. You can always make a lie truth by lying large enough.”
He had resumed his seat, and was puffing contentedly at his cigar.
“It’s a really marvellous specimen of bluff,” Zertho observed, in a tone of admiration. “When I first saw it I feared that you had been a bit too extravagant in your promises.”
“The bigger your promise the greater your success. I’ve always found it the same with all the wheezes I’ve worked,” he replied. “I saw you driving with Brooker’s daughter a few days ago. You seem to be having an uncommonly good time of it,” he added.