“There is a reward of two thousand five hundred francs,” he said, “for the recovery of the bracelet.  You will find on that paper an accurate description of the jewel.  It contains the celebrated Maroni emerald, presented to the ex-Emperor by the Sultan, and given by him to Mlle. Mars.”

Whereupon he turned unceremoniously on his heel and went, leaving me face to face with the man who had so shamefully tried to swindle me.  I turned, and resting my elbow on the table and my chin in my hand, I looked mutely on the soi-disant Jean Duval and equally mutely pointed with an accusing finger to the description of the famous bracelet which he had declared to me was merely strass and base metal.

But he had the impudence to turn on me before I could utter a syllable.

“Where is the bracelet?” he demanded.  “You consummate liar, you!  Where is it?  You stole it last night!  What have you done with it?”

“I extracted, at your request,” I replied with as much dignity as I could command, “a piece of theatrical jewellery, which you stated to me to be worthless, out of an iron chest, the key of which you placed in my hands.  I . . .”

“Enough of this rubbish!” he broke in roughly.  “You have the bracelet.  Give it me now, or . . .”

He broke off and looked somewhat alarmed in the direction of the office door, from the other side of which there had just come a loud crash, followed by loud, if unintelligible, vituperation.  What had happened I could not guess; all that I could do was to carry off the situation as boldly as I dared.

“You shall have the bracelet, Sir,” I said in my most suave manner.  “You shall have it, but not unless you will pay me three thousand francs for it.  I can get two thousand five hundred by taking it straight to Mlle. Mars.”

“And be taken up by the police for stealing it,” he retorted.  “How will you explain its being in your possession?”

I did not blanch.

“That is my affair,” I replied.  “Will you give me three thousand francs for it?  It is worth sixty thousand francs to a clever thief like you.”

“You hound!” he cried, livid with rage, and raised his cane as if he would strike me.

“Aye, it was cleverly done, M. Jean Duval, whoever you may be.  I know that the gentleman-thief is a modern product of the old regime, but I did not know that the fraternity could show such a fine specimen as yourself.  Pay Hector Ratichon a thousand francs for stealing a bracelet for you worth sixty!  Indeed, M. Jean Duval, you deserved to succeed!”

Again he shook his cane at me.

“If you touch me,” I declared boldly, “I shall take the bracelet at once to Mlle. Mars.”

He bit his lip and made a great effort to pull himself together.

“I haven’t three thousand francs by me,” he said.

“Go, fetch the money,” I retorted, “and I’ll fetch the bracelet.”