There was a hush at the humming table. The Count grew dead white and looked at his fingernails. Aristide superbly gathered up his notes and gold, and tossing a couple of louis to the croupiers, left the table, followed by all eyes. It was one of the thrilling moments of Aristide's life. He had taken the stage, commanded the situation. He had publicly offered the Comte de Lussigny the most deadly insult and the Comte de Lussigny sat down beneath it like a lamb. He swaggered slowly through the crowded room, twirling his moustache, and went into the cool of the moonlit deserted garden beyond, where he waited gleefully. He had a puckish knowledge of human nature. After a decent interval, and during the absorbing interest of the newly constituted bank, the Comte de Lussigny slipped unnoticed from the table and went in search of Aristide. He found him smoking a large corona and lounging in one wicker chair with his feet on another, beside a very large whisky and soda. "Ah, it's you," said he without moving. "Yes," said the Count furiously. "I haven't yet had the pleasure of kicking your friends over Mont Revard," said Aristide. "Look here, _mon petit_, this has got to finish," cried the Count. "_Parfaitement._ I should like nothing better than to finish. But let us finish like well-bred people," said Aristide suavely. "We don't want the whole Casino as witnesses. You'll find a chair over there. Bring it up." He was enjoying himself immensely. The Count glared at him, turned and banged a chair over by the side of the table. "Why do you insult me like this?" "Because," said Aristide, "I've talked by telephone this evening with my good friend Monsieur Lepine, Prefect of Police of Paris." "You lie," said the Count. "_Vous verrez._ In the meantime, perhaps we might have a little conversation. Will you have a whisky and soda? It is one of my English habits." "No," said the Count emphatically. "You permit me then?" He drank a great draught. "You are wrong. It helps to cool one's temper. _Eh bien_, let us talk." He talked. He put before the Count the situation of the beautiful Miss Errington. He conducted the scene like the friend of the family whose astuteness he had admired as a boy in the melodramas that found their way to Marseilles. "Look," said he, at last, having vainly offered from one hundred to eight hundred pounds for poor Betty Errington's compromising letters. "Look----" He drew the cheque from his note-case. "Here are twenty-five thousand francs. The signature is that of the charming Madame Errington herself. The letters, and a little signed word, just a little word. 'Mademoiselle, I am a _chevalier d'industrie_. I have a wife and five children. I am not worthy of you. I give you back your promise.' Just that. And twenty-five thousand francs, _mon ami_." "Never in life!" exclaimed the Count rising. "You continue to insult me." Aristide for the first time abandoned his lazy and insolent attitude and jumped to his feet.