"You don't get me," he asserted. "I'm burned out. I've given the best of me to this business--and I've realized that I gave it for nothing. I've spent myself--put my very soul into it--lived for it--and now I find that I couldn't ever have accomplished my ambition, even if I'd been generalissimo itself, because such ambitions aren't realized to-day. I was born fifty years too late." Mr. Doolittle clung to his theme. "Still, you owe something to society," he said. "You might marry." De Launay laughed loudly. "Owe!" he cried. "Such men as I am don't owe anything to any one. We're buccaneers; plunderers. We _levy_ on society; we don't _owe_ it anything. "As for marrying!" he laughed again. "I'd look pretty tying myself to a petticoat! Any woman would have a fit if she could look into my nature. And I hate women, anyway. I've not looked sideways at one for twenty years. Too much water has run under the bridge for that, old-timer. If I was a youngster, back again under the Esmeraldas----" He smiled reminiscently, and his rather hard features softened. "There was one then that I threatened to marry," he chuckled. "If they made 'em like her----" "Why don't you go back and find her?" De Launay stared at him. "After twenty years? Lord, man! D'you think she'd wait and remember me that long? Especially as she was about six years old when I left there! She's grown up and married now, I reckon, and she'd sick the dogs on me if I came back with any such intentions." He chuckled again, but his mirth was curiously soft and gentle. Doolittle had little trouble in guessing that this memory was a tender one. But De Launay rose, picked up a bundle of notes that lay on the table in front of him, stuffed them carelessly into the side pocket of his tunic and pushed the képi still more recklessly back and sideways. "No, old son!" he grinned. "I'm not the housebroke kind. The only reason I'd ever marry would be to win a bet or something like that. Make it a sporting proposition and I might consider it. Meantime, I'll stick to drink and gambling for the remaining days of my existence." Doolittle shook his head as he rose. "At any rate," he said, regretfully, "you may draw to whatever extent you wish and whenever you wish. And, if America should call you again, our house in New York, Doolittle, Morton & Co., will be happy to afford you every banking facility, general." De Launay waved his hand. "I'll make a will and leave it in trust for charity," he said, "with your firm as trustee. And forget the titles. I'm nobody, now, but ex-cow hand, ex-gunman, once known as Louisiana, and soon to be known no more except as a drunken souse. So long!"