"Not a blooming thing," continued his host. "But he'll pay three thousand, which is the principal, isn't it? He's partner in the show, you know, Ralston, Wiggins, and Wix's Brewery"--Aristide pricked up his ears--"and when his doddering old father dies he'll be Lord Ranelagh and come into a million of money." "Has he seen the picture?" asked Aristide. "Oh, yes. Regards it as a masterpiece. Didn't Brauneberger tell you of the Lancret we planted on the American?" Mr. Smith rubbed hearty hands at the memory of the iniquity. "Same old game. Always easy. I have nothing to do with the bargaining or the sale. Just an old friend of the ruined French nobleman with the historic château and family treasures. He comes along and fixes the price. I told our friend Harry----" "Good," thought Aristide. "This is the same Honourable Harry, M.P., who is engaged to the ravishing Miss Christabel." "I told him," said Mr. Smith, "that it might come to three or four thousand. He jibbed a bit--so when I wrote to you I said two or three. But you might try him with three to begin with." Aristide went back to the table and poured himself out a fresh glass of his kind host's 1865 brandy and drank it off. "Exquisite, my dear fellow," said he. "I've none finer in my historic château." "Don't suppose you have," grinned the host, joining him. He slapped him on the back. "Well," said he, with a shifty look in his little pig's eyes, "let us talk business. What do you think would be your fair commission? You see, all the trouble and invention have been mine. What do you say to four hundred pounds?" "Five," said Aristide, promptly. A sudden gleam came into the little pig's eyes. "Done!" said Mr. Smith, who had imagined that the other would demand a thousand and was prepared to pay eight hundred. "Done!" said he again. They shook hands to seal the bargain and drank another glass of old brandy. At that moment, a servant, entering, took the host aside. "Please excuse me a moment," said he, and went with the servant out of the room. Aristide, left alone, lighted another of his kind host's fat cigars and threw himself into a great leathern arm-chair by the fire, and surrendered himself deliciously to the soothing charm of the moment. Now and then he laughed, finding a certain comicality in his position. And what a charming father-in-law, this kind Mr. Smith! His cheerful reflections were soon disturbed by the sudden irruption of his host and a grizzled, elderly, foxy-faced gentleman with a white moustache, wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honour in the buttonhole of his overcoat. "Here, you!" cried the kind Mr. Smith, striding up to Aristide, with a very red face. "Will you have the kindness to tell me who the devil you are?"