“We are sorry,” I muttered, but he seemed not to hear us. George Tarlyon is usually a fine upstanding fellow, and some people have thought him handsome, but now he looked as though he had seen horrid spectres after dining entirely on _pâté de foie gras_. Mr. Wagstaffe was whispering, almost to himself: “Two years ago, when I drove him out of the house, he swore that one day he would steal my coins. And now he has stolen my coins. I always knew he would keep his word, for he is a devil. And he always knew that, come what might, I would not prosecute my son for a thief.... My Roman coins!” And Mr. Wagstaffe wept. We explained our position to him. We gave him a brief outline of the facts. We begged him to understand. We pointed out that if his son really had been an Armenian and if he had really been Achmed Jzzit Pasha we had undoubtedly saved his life. I couldn’t help thinking that he ought to be grateful to us, but I didn’t say that. He seemed to find a little solace in our discomfiture. “Ah, he’s a clever boy, Michael,” sighed Mr. Wagstaffe. “He is always on the lookout for what he calls the Mugs. I gather that you two gentlemen are Mugs--the same, perhaps, as what are known in America as Guys. But I, his father, can assure you that he is not an Armenian; nor has he ever been nearer to Armenia than the Bankruptcy Court, but he has been there twice. He calls himself the cavalier of the streets, but when he is up to any of his tricks he disguises himself as an Armenian--the disguise consisting merely of his saying he is an Armenian. It’s so simple, he says, for the Mugs believe him at once, on the ground that no one would say he was an Armenian if he wasn’t. I have only been back from America a week, and he must have been searching all London for me. He probably saw me at the theatre this evening, and was going to raid my house alone when you two intelligent gentlemen got in his way. But he is not a bad boy really--he’s got ideas, that’s what it is; and also Mugs have an irresistible fascination for him. Take your case, for instance. I have no doubt but that he will be ready to return me my coins in exchange for a cheque--though, of course, that depends on the cheque. And I can see, gentlemen, that you are eager to show your regret for breaking into my house and assaulting my person by offering to pay the cheque yourselves. I thank you; though, indeed, it is the least you can do, and an infinitely more convenient way of settling the matter than wearisome arguments in a police-court--provided, of course, that housebreaking and assault are matters for argument. I have never yet heard they were....” I giggled. I simply couldn’t help it. “That’s all very well,” said Tarlyon, “but what about my car?” “What is the matter with your car?” asked Mr. Wagstaffe gently. “There’s so damn little the matter with it,” snapped Tarlyon, “that it’s probably half-way down the Dover road by now.”