“No; trying to hang myself with this,” said Louis coolly, untying his hair and holding up the ribbon. “Ah, thanks for the water. Now, about that razor——” “Haven’t I told you, miserable _aristo_, that you can’t have it?” cried the jailor, exasperated. Saint-Ermay’s money had been returned to him when he was searched on arrival, though he would most willingly have parted with it could it have spared him that distasteful proceeding. He now drew a five-livre piece from his breeches pocket and looked at it. “What do you suppose I should do, then, with a razor, my friend?” “Why, cut my throat,” retorted the jailor with an oath. But his eyes were fastened on the big silver coin. “And what advantage,” asked the prisoner, “do you conceive that I should reap from such an action? Try to be sensible about this matter. I propose to give you five livres and the word of a gentleman that I will not lay a finger on your razor. You shall shave me yourself—and then you will be far more likely to cut my throat than I yours, especially as I doubt whether you have ever had much practice with the implement.” Cupidity struggled for a moment with respect for regulations and came off victorious, with the result that about an hour afterwards Louis surrendered his chin to ministrations not of the most skilful. After the crown-piece had changed hands and the jailor was gathering up his shaving materials, he observed in a significant tone: “You seem mighty free with your money, _aristo_. Isn't there any other use you could put it to, now?” “I'm afraid, Barber, that your speech is too dark for me,” returned Saint-Ermay, dabbing at a cut on his chin. “Do you mean that you would like to powder my hair for me?” “Isn't there anybody outside,” asked the man, sinking his voice, “who would be glad to have a line from you? It's done, sometimes, with the help of a louis or two. . . .” The Vicomte stood silent, with his handkerchief to his chin, but his heart suddenly beat fast. Was it possible? Gilbert did not even know where he was. It might make all the difference. And Lucienne. . . . “All very fine,” he said, not wishing to appear too eager. “But supposing I have a fancy to write a letter, how am I to know that you will ever deliver it?” “Oh, you may trust me for that, _ci-devant_. I'll deliver it safe enough, and not ask you for the money till I can prove I have done it. See, here is paper and pencil, but be quick.” The eagerness was his, not Saint-Ermay’s, as he dragged out a grimy piece of paper and a stump of pencil. “Write quickly, and give it to me now, for I shan't be able to come in again this morning.” Louis looked very hard at his dirty, leering face as he took the pencil and paper, shrugged his shoulders, and turned away to the table. The man hastily placed a stool for him.