An hour later Limantour was seen hurrying out of the club. As a man will, he scarcely noticed his chauffeur but cast a brief “home” to the man at the wheel. His limousine started, following a route through deserted residential streets, in one of which I had the trap ready. Half blocking the road was a large automobile, apparently broken down. It was the automobile in which I had been waiting outside the club. In it were four of my Apaches. Limantour’s car was called upon to stop. “Can you lend me a wrench?” one of my men shouted to Limantour’s false chauffeur. His limousine stopped. That free masonry which existed in the early days between motorists lent itself nicely to the situation. It was most natural for the chauffeur of Limantour’s car to get out and help my stalled motor. Indeed, Limantour himself opened the door of the limousine and half protruding his body, called out with the kindest intentions. To throw a chloroform-soaked towel over his head was the work of an instant. In half a minute he was having dreams—which I trust were pleasant. It was still necessary to keep my own men in the dark, to give these thugs no inkling that this was a diplomatic job. This time I was prepared; for I had learned of Limantour’s habits in regard to carrying money on his person. In my right hand overcoat pocket there were gold coins and bank notes. With the leader of the gang, I went through Limantour’s clothes. In the darkness of that street, it was a simple matter to seem to extract from them a double fist-full of gold pieces and currency, which I turned over to _The Salmon_. “Perhaps he has more bank notes,” I muttered, and I reached for the inner pocket of his coat. There my fingers closed upon a stiff document that made them tingle. “I’ll just grab everything and we can go over it afterwards.” Out of Limantour’s possession into mine came pocket-book, letters, card-case and that heavy familiar feeling paper. Dumping the unconscious Limantour into his limousine we cranked up our car and were off, leaving behind us at the worst, plain evidence of a crime common enough in Paris. It was to be corroborated next morning by the discovery of a drunken chauffeur, for we took pains to go back and get him once more into his uniform and full of absinthe. But it did not come to even that much scandal. Limantour, for obvious reasons, did not report the incident to the police. The next morning it was given out that Limantour had gone into the country and would not sail for a week. He had had a sudden recrudescence of an old throat trouble and must rest and undergo treatment before undertaking the voyage to Mexico—so the specialist said. This report appeared in Paris newspapers of the day. Of the protocol nothing was said at that time or later—by Señor Limantour.