Aristide rose, and, putting his hands behind the tails of his frock-coat, stood smiling radiantly on the hearthrug. A wit much less alert than my irresponsible friend's would have instantly appreciated the fact that the real Simon Pure had arrived on the scene. "I, my dear friend," said he, "am the Baron de Je ne Sais Plus." "You're a confounded impostor," spluttered Mr. Smith. "And this gentleman here to whom I have not had the pleasure of being introduced?" asked Aristide, blandly. "I am M. Poiron, monsieur, the agent of Messrs. Brauneberger and Compagnie, art dealers, of the Rue Notre Dame des Petits Champs of Paris," said the new-comer, with an air of defiance. "Ah, I thought you were the Baron," said Aristide. "There's no blooming Baron at all about it!" screamed Mr. Smith. "Are you Poiron, or is he?" "I would not have a name like Poiron for anything in the world," said Aristide. "My name is Aristide Pujol, soldier of fortune, at your service." "How the blazes did you get here?" "Your servant asked me if I was a French gentleman from Manchester. I was. He said that Mr. Smith had sent his carriage for me. I thought it hospitable of the kind Mr. Smith. I entered the carriage--_et voilà!_" "Then clear out of here this very minute," said Mr. Smith, reaching forward his hand to the bell-push. Aristide checked his impulsive action. "Pardon me, dear host," said he. "It is raining dogs and cats outside. I am very comfortable in your luxurious home. I am here, and here I stay." "I'm shot if you do," said the kind Mr. Smith, his face growing redder and uglier. "Now, will you go out, or will you be thrown out?" Aristide, who had no desire whatever to be ejected from this snug nest into the welter of the wet and friendless world, puffed at his cigar, and looked at his host with the irresistible drollery of his eyes. "You forget, _mon cher ami_," said he, "that neither the beautiful Miss Christabel nor her affianced, the Honourable Harry, M.P., would care to know that the talented Gottschalk got only eight pounds, not even guineas, for painting that three-thousand-pound picture." "So it's blackmail, eh?" "Precisely," said Aristide, "and I don't blush at it." "You infernal little blackguard!" "I seem to be in congenial company," said Aristide. "I don't think our friend M. Poiron has more scruples than he has right to the ribbon of the Legion of Honour which he is wearing." "How much will you take to go out? I have a cheque-book handy." Mr. Smith moved a few steps from the hearthrug. Aristide sat down in the arm-chair. An engaging, fantastic impudence was one of the charms of Aristide Pujol. "I'll take five hundred pounds," said he, "to stay in." "Stay in?" Mr. Smith grew apoplectic. "Yes," said Aristide. "You can't do without me. Your daughter and your servants know me as M. le Baron--by the way, what is my name? And where is my historic château in Languedoc?"