"Just tell Louis, the _maitre d'hotel_, I wish to speak to him," he instructed the waiter. The man departed. Ten minutes passed, but there was no sign of Louis. Mr. Bundercombe sent another and more imperative message. This time Louis obeyed it. As he crossed the room a little hesitatingly toward us, it was almost sad to notice the alteration in his appearance. At Luigi's he had been so smart, so upright, so well dressed. Here he was a changed being. His hair needed cutting; his linen was no longer irreproachable; his clothes were dusty and out of shape. The man seemed to have lost all care of himself and all pride in his work. When at last he reached the table Mr. Bundercombe did not beat about the bush. "Louis," he said, "we have been to Stephano's tonight for the first time for some weeks. I came along here to see you because of what Luigi told me. Now you can just take this from me: You've got to tell me the truth. There's something wrong with you! What is it?" Louis extended his hands. He was making his one effort. "There is nothing wrong with me," he declared. "I left Stephano's to--as they say in this country--better myself. I am in charge here--next to Monsieur Giatron himself. If Monsieur Giatron should go back to Italy I should be manager. It seemed like a good post. Perhaps I was foolish to leave." "Louis," Mr. Bundercombe protested, "I guess I didn't come round here to listen to lies. You and I had some little dealings together and I feel I've the right to insist on the truth. Now, then, don't give us any more trouble--there's a good fellow! If you'd rather talk to me alone invite me into the office or behind that desk." Louis looked round the room, which was almost empty, save for the waiters preparing the tables for supper. "Mr. Bundercombe," he said, with a little gesture of resignation, "it is because of those dealings that I came to trouble." Mr. Bundercombe eyed him steadily. "Go on!" he ordered. Louis moved closer still to the table. "It was those banknotes, Mr. Bundercombe," he confessed. "You gave me one packet to be destroyed in the kitchen. I obeyed; but I looked at them first. Never did I see such wonderful work! Those notes--every one seemed real! Every one, as I put it into the fire, gave my heart a pang. "And then, the other time--when you slipped them under the table to me because Mr. Cullen was about! I took them, too, to the fire. I destroyed one, two, three, four, five--one dozen--two dozen; and then I came to the last two or three, and my fingers--they went slow. I could not bear it. I thought what could be done. My wife she was not well. I could send her to Italy. I owe a little bill. The tips--they had not been good lately. Behold! There was one ten-pound note left when all the others were destroyed. I put him in my waistcoat pocket." "Go on!" Mr. Bundercombe said encouragingly. "No one is blaming you. Upon my word, it sounds natural enough." Louis' voice grew a little bolder.