"I have a restaurant," M. Poizat corrected him. "Lungatine is merely one of my discoveries." He sat down complacently. Captain Rames started up in dismay upon his elbow. "I have a great deal to do to-morrow," he said piteously. The plea was of no avail. Captain Rames was in the grip of that most terrible of all constituents, the amateur inventor. M. Poizat drew his chair to the side of the sofa and went through the tale of his inventions. It was the usual inevitable list--an automatic lift which would work with absolute safety in any mine, a torpedo which would destroy any navy, a steel process which would resist any torpedo, and a railway-coupling. "I'll bring you the models," he cried. "No, no," cried Rames, springing from his sofa in dismay. Then he laid his hand on the inventor's shoulder and smiled wisely: "Royal commissions for you," he said. "They're the fellows for models. I'll see about some. Royal commissions for you. Thank you for your Lungatine. Good-night, my friend, good-night." Gently, but firmly, he raised the inventor from his chair, while he shook hands with him, and conducted him toward the door. "You have your hat? Yes." "A tablespoonful six times a day in a wineglass of water." "Yes. The instructions, I see, are on the bottle." Captain Rames opened the door with his pleasantest smile. "To-morrow at your great meeting," said M. Poizat, "I shall be there. I shall hear what you say. Your voice will ring like a trumpet. And perhaps at the end of your speech, you will say that it is all due to Lungatine." A frosty silence followed upon the words. Captain Rames said indifferently: "You have been in England a long time. You are naturalized, of course?" M. Poizat did not reply to the question. "Perhaps you will say that it is all due to Lungatine," he repeated softly. "Perhaps you will say that. Who knows?" Captain Rames looked up at the ceiling. "Ah, who knows?" he said enigmatically. M. Poizat shook hands for a second time and went down the stairs. Captain Rames closed the door, took the cork from the bottle, wetted the tips of his finger, and tasted the brown liquid. It was a simple solution of paregoric. "I don't believe the fellow's naturalized," cried Rames, and he raised the bottle in the air above the coal-scuttle. But he did not let it drop. "Perhaps he is though," he thought. He poured away a portion of the liquid amongst the coal, replaced the cork, and set the bottle prominently upon the mantel-shelf so that if M. Poizat took it into his head to call again he would see it there. Then he betook himself to bed; and M. Poizat figured in his dreams, a grotesque, little, capering creature, a figure of fun, as indeed he was, to the eyes of wakefulness. There are people upon whose faces nature writes plainly hints of tragic destinies, and M. Poizat had certainly no relationship with these. But then nature is apt to be freakish. CHAPTER XIII