“I use it as a stove,” said the Baron.

Next summer, when the pretty lake dried up and began to smell, we advised the Baron to take a holiday.  We told him of pleasant, hospitable people in San Francisco, in Menlo, and at Del Monte, who would be charmed to make his acquaintance.

“San Francisco? Jamais, jamais de la vie!”

“Come with us to Del Monte?”

“Del Monte?”

We explained that Del Monte was a huge hotel standing in lovely gardens which ran down to the sea.

“Jamais—­jamais,” repeated the Baron.

“We don’t like to leave you at the mercy of John Jacob Dumble,” said Ajax.

“You have right.  I make not harmony wiz ze old man Dumble.”

We went home sorely puzzled.  Obviously the Baron had private reasons, and strong ones, for keeping out of San Francisco and Del Monte.  And it was significant—­as Ajax said to me—­that a man who could talk so admirably upon art, politics, and literature never spoke a word concerning himself.

At Del Monte we happened to meet the French Consul.  From him we learned that there was a certain Rene, Comte de Bourgueil-Crotanoy.  The Chateau Bourgueil-Crotanoy in Morbihan is nearly as famous as Chaumont or Chenonceau.  The Consul possessed an Almanack de Gotha.  From this we gleaned two more facts.  Rene, Comte de Bourgueil, had two sons, and no kinsmen whatever.

“Your man,” said the Consul discreetly, “must be somebody—­you say he is somebody—­well, somebody else!”

“Another Wilkins,” said I.

“Pooh!” ejaculated Ajax.

“No Frenchman of the Comte de Bourgueil’s position and rank—­he is a godson, you know, of the Comte de Chambord—­would come to California without my knowledge,” said the Consul.

The day after our return to the ranch we rode over to see how the Baron fared.  We found him in a tent pitched as far as possible from the evil-smelling lake.  Passing the bungalow, we had noted that six weeks’ uninterrupted sunshine had played havoc with the Baron’s garden.  The man himself, moreover, seemed to have wilted.  The sun had sucked the colour from his eyes and cheeks.  Of a sudden, old age had overtaken him.

He greeted us with his usual courtesy, and asked if we had enjoyed our holiday.  We told him many things about Del Monte, but we didn’t mention the French Consul.  Then, in our turn, we begged for such news as he might have.  He replied solemnly—­

“I speak no more wiz ze Dumbles.  Old man Dumble ees a fraud. Moi, I abominate frauds—­hein? He obtain my money onder false pretences, is it not so?  Ah, yes; but I forgive ’im, because he is poor.  But also, since you go, he obtain my secret—­I haf a secret—­ under false pretences.  Oh, ze canaille!  I tell ’im that if ’e were my equal I would wiz my sword s-spit ’im.  Because ’e is canaille I s-s-spit at ’im. Voila!”