“My excellent client,” he said gravely, “you will excuse my contradicting you, but it is not twenty-five thousand francs you owe me, it is merely twenty-four thousand, five hundred; I am nothing if not honest; I wouldn’t wrong you by one single centime.” The effect of this declaration was to make the young Englishman laugh: “Egad! Monsieur Moche,” he declared, “they’ve changed you surely, the thing’s impossible!” But the usurer put on his grandest air: “My dear sir, strict probity in business is my maxim! I assure you it pays, the future is to the men of honour, and it’s just because I am conscientious that I benefit by the fidelity of my clients. You yourself, Monsieur Ascott, will certainly require my services again some day, and you may rely on always finding me devoted to your interests.” “That,” Ascott broke in drily, “I cannot promise; I don’t care, I tell you frankly, to have relations with men of your stamp. In the last eighteen months I’ve been travelling up and down the world, I have changed very much, I have money now; I am going to make a home in Paris, where I propose to live as a good citizen, spending no more than my income.” “I’ve been told,” M. Moche interrupted, “that you have just bought a delightful little house in the Rue Fortuny.” “How came you to know that?” demanded Ascott, not denying the fact. “Pooh!” said Moche, “in the great world of business and finance to which I belong, we know pretty well everything that happens.” “Really?” said Ascott incredulously, amazed to think that so insignificant a person as Moche, a moneylender of a low type, could be in any way connected with the big and highly respected bankers of the Place de Paris through whom he had negotiated the purchase of the house in the Rue Fortuny. But Moche was well posted without a doubt. By a fresh question he more than ever surprised the rich Englishman; he now suggested, speaking out without any reticence or beating about the bush: “Doubtless it’s to build a pretty nest for a grand mistress you’ve bought that exquisite house; I _have_ heard say that a certain Monsieur Ascott, here present, is head over ears in love with a certain Russian princess named Sonia Danidoff, with whom he crossed the Atlantic on board the _Lorraine_.” Ascott sprang up in extreme agitation. “Moche,” he cried, “you think you are a wonderful man who knows everything, but you are behind the fair, my friend, this time; yes, I admit, I _was_ deeply in love with the Princess Danidoff, and I confess I was in hopes that in France, after the persevering court I paid her, she would at last consent to grant me her favours—but events have decided otherwise.” “Poor Monsieur Ascott!” murmured M. Moche. Then he added, casting a side glance at his companion to judge of the effect of his words: “To think that fool princess prefers a common detective to you!” Ascott literally flew at the old villain’s throat, and shaking him by the shoulder,