For the next few days Aix seemed to be tame and colourless. In an inexplicable fashion, too, it had become unprofitable. Aristide no longer knew that he was going to win; and he did not win. He lost considerably. So much so that on the morning when he was to draw the cash for the cheque, at the Crédit Lyonnais, he had only fifty pounds and some odd silver left. Aristide looking at the remainder rather ruefully made a great resolution. He would gamble no more. Already he was richer than he had ever been in his life. He would leave Aix. _Tiens!_ why should he not go to his good friends the Bocardons at Nîmes, bringing with him a gold chain for Bocardon and a pair of ear-rings for the adorable Zette? There he would look about him. He would use the thousand pounds as a stepping-stone to legitimate fortune. Then he would visit the Erringtons in England, and if the beautiful Miss Betty smiled on him--why, after all, _sacrebleu_ he was an honest man, without a feather on his conscience. So, jauntily swinging his cane, he marched into the office of the Crédit Lyonnais, went into the inner room and explained his business. "Ah, your cheque, monsieur, that we were to collect. I am sorry. It has come back from the London bankers." "How come back?" "It has not been honoured. See, monsieur. 'Not known. No account.'" The cashier pointed to the grim words across the cheque. "_Comprends pas_," faltered Aristide. "It means that the person who gave you the cheque has no account at this bank." Aristide took the cheque and looked at it in a dazed way. "Then I do not get my twenty-five thousand francs?" "Evidently not," said the cashier. Aristide stood for a while stunned. What did it mean? His thousand pounds could not be lost. It was impossible. There was some mistake. It was an evil dream. With a heavy weight on the top of his head, he went out of the Crédit Lyonnais and mechanically crossed the little street separating the Bank from the café on the Place Carnot. There he sat stupidly and wondered. The waiter hovered in front of him. "_Monsieur désire?_" Aristide waved him away absently. Yes, it was some mistake. Mrs. Errington in her agitation must have used the wrong cheque book. But even rich English people do not carry about with them a circulating library assortment of cheque books. It was incomprehensible--and meanwhile, his thousand pounds.... The little square blazed before him in the August sunshine. Opposite flashed the white mass of the Etablissement des Bains. There was the old Roman Arch of Titus, gray and venerable. There were the trees of the gardens in riotous greenery. There on the right marking the hour of eleven on its black face was the clock of the Comptoir National. It was Aix; familiar Aix; not a land of dreams. And there coming rapidly across from the Comptoir National was the well knit figure of the young man from Atlanta. "_Nom de Dieu_," murmured Aristide. "_Nom de Dieu de nom de Dieu!_"