“_Ma foi!_” cried a rather shrill, metallic voice as a man opened the door and stepped within. “My dear friend, I have rapped several times, and so I took the liberty....” “Oh, come in by all means, Monsieur du Trémigon,” I replied, rising and welcoming the newcomer, although with no great cordiality. He was the hatefulest of all the crowd with whom I had cast my lot since I had been in Paris, and I more than suspected it was to him that I had passed those little pieces of paper which began more and more definitely to impress themselves upon my recollection. “I suppose,” I said, “that you have come to settle our accounts of last night, Monsieur?” “There is no haste about that,” he returned politely enough, “but since you insist, as well now as any other time.” “I shall be honest with you, Marquis,” I returned bluntly; “I’m afraid I shall have to ask your indulgence for a short time.” He drew from his pocket a package of papers and laid them on the table. I took them up as I spoke, and although I am no great hand at figures, I saw that the total was appalling. My heart sank, but I flatter myself that I displayed as equable a demeanor as the man opposite me. It has always been my practice to put a bold face on everything. “Pray give yourself no uneasiness whatever about these little matters,” said the Marquis in his most genial manner—and the more gentle and kindly he was, strange to say, the more I hated him! “Or rather,” he continued, interrupting me as I began to speak, “I can show you a way to discharge them with little difficulty to yourself, and that immediately.” “Show me that way!” I cried. “I will avail myself of it at once. To tell you the truth, I am sick of the life I have led in this city.” “I thought,” said du Trémigon, smiling meaningly, “that you were scarcely suited for——” “What do you mean?” I cried, glad for the chance to vent my indignation upon someone. “Didn’t I bear myself like a gentleman?” “Oh, quite so, entirely so. You misapprehend me, my dear Burnham,” he protested. “Well, I dare say you are right,” I replied carelessly, too troubled to quarrel, “I am a sailor. The sea is my world. I am at home there or on my father’s plantation in the Carolinas. But this is nothing to you. The point is, I am in your debt.” “This ring, Monsieur,” said the Marquis, lifting his hand. “Do you know whose it is?” “Yours, I suppose, since you won it,” I replied. “It was mine.” “Pardon me, it was originally mine.” “What!” “Mine.” “Then you are——?” “The gentleman whose purse you kindly relieved him of a few weeks ago in England.” “Impossible!” I cried. “Impossible, but true, Monsieur. I recognized you when I met you last week at Varesi’s”—the name of a popular gambling resort—“I wasn’t quite sure, however. At least, I had no proof until last night. This ring? You remember taking it?” “Oh, perfectly,” I said.