"And why?" said the voice imperturbably. "Because the game's up." I opened the door. "Besides, to tell you the truth, we're rather particular about our cushions. Till now, no one with more than three previous convictions has ever sat on them." With narrowed eyes, a very square-faced gentleman regarded me grimly. "If you hadn't damaged my car," he said slowly. "I'd get out and refashion your physiognomy. But I guess I'll wait for the police." And, with that, he drew a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, spat, and then lighted the brand with great deliberation. I began to think rapidly. Violence was out of the question. The fellow was far heavier than I, and obviously as hard as nails. Moreover, I felt instinctively that the Queensberry Rules did not mean much to him. As for cunning--well, we were not in the same class. Here was an audacity such as I had not dreamed of. Having lost one throw, the fellow was doubling his stake. Hook having broken in his hand, he had dropped it and picked up Crook. _His game was to bluff the French police_. That was why he was staying in the car--to give the impression of ownership. If he could maintain this impression, make it easy for the police to wash their hands of a dispute between foreigners, so find favour in their eyes, just turn the scale sufficiently to be allowed to proceed "pending the fullest inquiries"--it might go hard with us.... I fancy he read my thoughts, for he took the cigar from his mouth and laughed softly. "Up against it, aren't you?" he said. At last a _gendarme_ arrived, and five minutes later we were all on the way to the police-station. This was not to my gentleman's taste, but he was too shrewd a knave to press his point. Honesty was his best policy. He did demand hotly that I should be taken in charge, but I had the better of him in French, and after a moment he let that iron go. He fought very hard for the services of a mechanic, but I was determined that the engine should remain out of action, and, calling for volunteers upon the crowd of unlookers, soon satisfied the _gendarme_ that to push the car to the station was easy enough. Holding fast to the accomplice, who, for reasons best known to himself, was adopting an injured air in sulky silence, Berry walked by my side. "What's his game?" he muttered. "In the face of our papers, he's done." "He'll swear they're his, for a monkey. They're in the car. Probably read them through, while you were looking for me. And all the details are on the Travelling Pass. But he's got to get over the photograph." "Well, it's up to you," said Berry. "I used to think I could bluff, but this--this is beyond me." When we arrived at the police-station the chief of the police was summoned, and we told our respective tales. Our enemy spoke first--shortly, but much to the point.