After a time he picked up the London journal, and the very first thing that met his eye was the identical advertisement on the back of the cover. He rose and began to search through the week’s file of the Figaro, and there again he found the announcement of the contest. He was too keenly excited now for more reading. He began to pace the chamber. What a clever head had planned all this world-wide publicity! “That Los Angeles bunch of fellows are certainly great. They are evidently going into this thing right. Doubtless they are determined to build the ideal—the model—city of California. They want the best brains of all lands to help beautify the place. Gee! but I’d like to be in this contest game. But perhaps it would be presumption on my part. Yet, who knows the country better than I do? When it comes to landscape effects, I’m Johnny-on-the-spot all right. And they’re in a hurry—only sixty days for the drawings. Unusual, such a short time. But I guess they’re going to make the dust fly without a week’s unnecessary delay. They are certainly live wires—they began by getting old Ben Thurston on the run.” 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?” “Ze young lady—she very rich young lady, Miss Merle.” Dick laughed. “Oh, that’s quite another prize, Pierre,” he replied. “And if she is so very rich, as you say, why that puts her further out of my reach than ever.” Pierre nodded his head determinedly. “If I was you, Mr. Willoughby, ze prize I would try to win is ze beautiful young lady.” When Pierre had gone, Dick again lay back in the long chair. But he was day-dreaming and love-dreaming now, wondering whether Merle Farnsworth really cared for him, whether he might dare whisper to her the story of his passionate love. CHAPTER XXI—A Debt of Honor