"Give her to me! Give her to me, I say! She won't regret it." [Illustration: MR. DUCKSMITH SEIZED HIM BY THE LAPELS OF HIS COAT] "You swear that?" asked Aristide, with lightning quickness. "I swear it, by God! Where is she?" Aristide disengaged himself, waved his hand airily towards Perigueux, and smiled blandly. "In the salon of the hotel, waiting for you to prostrate yourself on your knees before her." Mr. Ducksmith gripped him by the arm. "Come back with me. If you're lying I'll kill you." "The luggage?" queried Aristide. "Confound the luggage!" said Mr. Ducksmith, and dragged him out of the station. A cab brought them quickly to the hotel. Mr. Ducksmith bolted like an obese rabbit into the salon. A few moments afterwards Aristide, entering, found them locked in each other's arms. They started alone for England that night, and Aristide returned to the directorship of the Agence Pujol. But he took upon himself enormous credit for having worked a miracle. * * * * * "One thing I can't understand," said I, after he had told me the story, "is what put this sham elopement into your crazy head. What did you see when you looked into Mr. Ducksmith's bedroom?" "Ah, _mon vieux_, I did not tell you. If I had told you, you would not have been surprised at what I did. I saw a sight that would have melted the heart of a stone. I saw Ducksmith wallowing on his bed and sobbing as if his heart would break. It filled my soul with pity. I said: 'If that mountain of insensibility can weep and sob in such agony, it is because he loves--and it is I, Aristide, who have reawakened that love.'" "Then," said I, "why on earth didn't you go and fetch Mrs. Ducksmith and leave them together?" He started from his chair and threw up both hands. "_Mon Dieu!_" cried he. "You English! You are a charming people, but you have no romance. You have no dramatic sense. I will help myself to a whisky and soda." VIII THE ADVENTURE OF THE FICKLE GODDESS