Sir, Hector Ratichon’s heart has ever been susceptible to the charms of beauty in distress.  This lovely being, Sir, who now at my invitation entered my office and sank with perfect grace into the arm-chair, was in obvious distress.  Tears hung on the fringe of her dark lashes, and the gossamer-like handkerchief which she held in her dainty hand was nothing but a wet rag.  She gave herself exactly two minutes wherein to compose herself, after which she dried her eyes and turned the full artillery of her bewitching glance upon me.

“Monsieur Ratichon,” she began, even before I had taken my accustomed place at my desk and assumed that engaging smile which inspires confidence even in the most timorous; “Monsieur Ratichon, they tell me that you are so clever, and—­oh!  I am in such trouble.”

“Madame,” I rejoined with noble simplicity, “you may trust me to do the impossible in order to be of service to you.”

Admirably put, you will admit.  I have always been counted a master of appropriate diction, and I had been quick enough to note the plain band of gold which encircled the third finger of her dainty left hand, flanked though it was by a multiplicity of diamond, pearl and other jewelled rings.

“You are kind, Monsieur Ratichon,” resumed the beauteous creature more calmly.  “But indeed you will require all the ingenuity of your resourceful brain in order to help me in this matter.  I am struggling in the grip of a relentless fate which, if you do not help me, will leave me broken-hearted.”

“Command me, Madame,” I riposted quietly.

From out the daintiest of reticules the fair lady now extracted a very greasy and very dirty bit of paper, and handed it to me with the brief request:  “Read this, I pray you, my good M. Ratichon.”  I took the paper.  It was a clumsily worded, ill-written, ill-spelt demand for five thousand francs, failing which sum the thing which Madame had lost would forthwith be destroyed.

I looked up, puzzled, at my fair client.

“My darling Carissimo, my dear M. Ratichon,” she said in reply to my mute query.

“Carissimo?” I stammered, yet further intrigued.

“My darling pet, a valuable creature, the companion of my lonely hours,” she rejoined, once more bursting into tears.  “If I lose him, my heart will inevitably break.”

I understood at last.

“Madame has lost her dog?” I asked.

She nodded.

“It has been stolen by one of those expert dog thieves, who then levy blackmail on the unfortunate owner?”

Again she nodded in assent.

I read the dirty, almost illegible scrawl through more carefully this time.  It was a clumsy notification addressed to Mme. la Comtesse de Nole de St. Pris to the effect that her tou-tou was for the moment safe, and would be restored to the arms of his fond mistress provided the sum of five thousand francs was deposited in the hands of the bearer of the missive.