Pierre was not to be persuaded to take a place at the table, so Dick sat down in solitary state and was served in lordly fashion.
With the demi-tasse of black coffee at the close of the meal came a box of cigars—cigars fit for a prince, as Dick knew from the first fragrant whiff.
The table was now cleared and Pierre ready to withdraw. He had taken a letter from his pocket and was holding it in his hand. But Dick, warmed and fed and supremely contented, was watching the ascending rings of tobacco smoke.
“Do you know, Pierre,” he said between complacent puffs, “that I was one of the bunch that helped to get you out of San Quentin?” He had lapsed into English.
“Oh, yes, I know,” replied Pierre, also dropping his French. “Ze five men who made up ze purse—I am very grateful to you all.”
“Then what about the hidden treasure?”
“Ah, I was to show ze hidden treasure. But one great change come about. I made one big mistake.”
“Then the story of all this gold was a frame-up, was it?” laughed Willoughby.
“No, no,” protested Pierre earnestly. “Ze cave—you are here in ze cave, although you do not know ze secret hiding place. Ze treasure, it is here, too. But I can no longer show ze gold, for ze man to whom it all belong he is not dead—he is alive.”
“Whom do you mean?”