"_Mon cher_, ze monkeys in your backwoods are more-- _diable!_--moch more aggr-r-ressive zan ze monkeys in ze old world." "They pull tails there," said Ajax, "but here they pull legs as well-- eh?" The Baron smiled ruefully, sticking out a slender, delicately formed foot and ankle. "Yes," he said thoughtfully, "old man Dumble, he pull my leg." The Dumbles were neighbours of the Baron, and their sterile acres marched with his. John Jacob Dumble's word might be as good or better than his bond, but neither was taken at par. It was said of him that he preferred to take cash for telling a lie rather than credit for telling the truth. Dumble, as we knew, had sold the Baron one horse and saddle, one Frisian-Holstein cow, and an incubator. The saddle gave the horse a sore back, the horse fell down and broke its knees, the cow dried up in a fortnight, and the incubator cooked eggs to perfection, but it wouldn't incubate them. "I use it as a stove," said the Baron. Next summer, when the pretty lake dried up and began to smell, we advised the Baron to take a holiday. We told him of pleasant, hospitable people in San Francisco, in Menlo, and at Del Monte, who would be charmed to make his acquaintance. "San Francisco? _Jamais, jamais de la vie!_" "Come with us to Del Monte?" "Del Monte?" We explained that Del Monte was a huge hotel standing in lovely gardens which ran down to the sea. "_Jamais--jamais_," repeated the Baron. "We don't like to leave you at the mercy of John Jacob Dumble," said Ajax. "You have right. I make not harmony wiz ze old man Dumble." We went home sorely puzzled. Obviously the Baron had private reasons, and strong ones, for keeping out of San Francisco and Del Monte. And it was significant--as Ajax said to me--that a man who could talk so admirably upon art, politics, and literature never spoke a word concerning himself. At Del Monte we happened to meet the French Consul. From him we learned that there was a certain Réné, Comte de Bourgueil-Crotanoy. The Château Bourgueil-Crotanoy in Morbihan is nearly as famous as Chaumont or Chénonceau. The Consul possessed an _Almanack de Gotha_. From this we gleaned two more facts. Réné, Comte de Bourgueil, had two sons, and no kinsmen whatever. "Your man," said the Consul discreetly, "must be somebody--you say he is _somebody_--well, somebody else!" "Another Wilkins," said I. "Pooh!" ejaculated Ajax. "No Frenchman of the Comte de Bourgueil's position and rank--he is a godson, you know, of the Comte de Chambord--would come to California without my knowledge," said the Consul.