He was chuckling to himself at the thought when Pierre reappeared.
“Pierre, old fellow,” cried Dick, “would you be able to get me a drawing board, a box of instruments, india ink, water-colors, drawing paper, and so on?”
“What are you going to do?” asked the old man with a smile. “Do you think you are again in ze Quartier Latin, Mr. Willoughby?”
“No. But while I’m here I’m going back to the old Quartier Latin life, that’s a cinch. Can you buy me that stuff?” he added, diving into his hip pocket.
But he had forgotten—he had come out of jail, and his personal possessions had been left behind.
Pierre Luzon, however, had interpreted both the gesture and the thought that had prompted it.
“You need no money here, Mr. Willoughby,” he said. “My orders are to get you everything you call for. Write all you need on a piece of paper. I send a trusty messenger, and we have ze drawing paper, ze instruments, ze ink and ze paints here very soon—yes, very soon.”
“Then, by thunder, I’m going to win that ten-thousand-dollar prize.”
“But she is worth millions of dollars.”
“What do you mean?”