"I am, at all events, going to try to recover your wealth for you. Besides, I have a singular desire to twist the neck of Monsieur Charles Miste. I ought to have known that the Vicomte was too old to be trusted with the arrangement of affairs such as that. Your father knew it, but thought that I was taking an active part in the matter. I was a fool." "Ah!" said Alphonse Giraud. "We are all fools, _mon cher_, or knaves." And long afterwards, remembering the words, I recognised that truth often bubbles to the lips of irresponsible people. I told him of my plans, which were simple enough, for I had called in the aid of men whose profession it was to deal with scoundrels. It is only until we know vice that we think it complicated or interesting. There is really no man so simple as your thorough scoundrel. A picture all shade is less difficult to comprehend than one where light and shade are mingled. I had only asked to be put on the track of Charles Miste, for evil men, like water, run in one channel and one direction only. I wished to deal with him myself, law or no law. Indeed, there had been a sufficiency of law and lawyers in my affairs already. "And I will help you," exclaimed Alphonse Giraud, when he had heard, not without interruption, my proposed plan of campaign. "I will go with you." "No; you cannot do that. You may be sure that Miste has accomplices who will, of course, watch you, and warn him the moment they suspect you of being on the right scent. Whereas I am nobody. Miste does not even know me. I wish I knew him." And I remembered with regret how ignorant I was. "Besides," I added, "you surely have other calls. The Vicomte requires some one near him--the ladies will be glad of your advice and assistance." He was scarcely the man to whom I should have applied for either, but one can never tell with women. Some of them look up to us when we know in our hearts that we are no better than asses. We talked of details which may well be omitted here, for the majority of them were based upon assumptions subsequently to be proved erroneous. It seemed that Alphonse Giraud had almost given up hope of recovering his lost wealth, and as I raised this anew in his breast so his face grew graver. A great hope makes a grave face. "You must not," he said, "make me believe that, unless you have a good foundation for your own faith." "Oh, no!" I answered, and instinctively changed the subject. His gravity disturbed me. But he returned to his thought again and again. "It is not the money," he said at length, when I, who knew what was coming, could no longer hold him. "It is--" he paused, his face suddenly red as he looked hard into his coffee-cup. "It is Lucille." I made no answer, and it was Alphonse who spoke again, after a pause. "What a hard face you have, mon ami!" he said. "I never noticed it before. I pity that poor Miste, you know--if you catch him."