As they were leaving Voisin’s together after their luncheon it happened that Monty walked behind his friend through the door. Deftly he inserted his hand into the gaping pocket and removed the pouch to his own. He chuckled to think of the object lesson he would presently dilate upon. When they were near one of those convenient seats which Paris provides for her street-living populace Monty suggested a minute’s rest. With an elaborate gesture he took out the pouch and showed it to Denby. “Did you ever see this before?” he demanded. “I’ve got one just like it,” his friend returned without undue interest. “Useful things, aren’t they, and last so much longer than the rubber ones?” “My pouch,” said Monty, beginning to enjoy his own joke, “looks better inside than outside. I keep in it tobacco I grow in my private orchid house. Look!” He pulled back the flap and held it out to Denby. Denby gazed in it obediently with no change of countenance. “You’re not a heavy smoker, are you?” he returned. Instantly Monty gazed into it. It was empty except for a shred of tobacco. “Good God!” he cried. “They’ve been stolen from me and they put the pouch back!” “What has?” the other exclaimed. “The pearls,” Monty groaned. “I took them for a joke, and now they’re gone!” He looked apprehensively at Steven, meditating meanwhile how quickly he could turn certain scrip he held into ready money. Steven evinced no surprise. Instead he rose from his seat and placed a foot upon it as though engaged in tying a lace. But he pointed to the cuff on the bottom of the trouser leg that was on the seat by Monty’s side. And Monty, gazing as he was bid, saw his friend’s slender fingers pick therefrom a string of pearls. “I know no safer place,” Denby commented judicially. “Of course the customs fellows are on to it, but no pickpocket who ever lived can get anything away from you if you cache it there. On board ship I shall carry it in my pocket, but this is the best place in Paris when one is in strange company.” Monty said no word. His relief was too great and he felt weak and helpless. “What’s the matter?” Denby demanded. “I want a drink,” Monty returned, “but it isn’t on you.” CHAPTER THREE THERE are still restaurants in Paris where a well chosen dinner delights the chef who is called upon to cook it and the waiters who serve. And although it is true that most of the diners of to-day know little of that art which is now disappearing, it happened that Steven Denby was one who delighted the heart of the Ambassadeurs’ chef.