Those were the days, Sir, when the Emperor’s Berlin Decrees were going to sweep the world clear of English commerce and of English enterprise.  It was not a case of paying heavy duty on English goods, or a still heavier fine if you smuggled; it was total prohibition, and hanging if you were caught bringing so much as a metre of Bradford cloth or half a dozen Sheffield files into the country.  But you know how it is, Sir:  the more strict the law the more ready are certain lawless human creatures to break it.  Never was smuggling so rife as it was in those days—­I am speaking now of 1810 or 11—­never was it so daring or smugglers so reckless.

M. le Duc d’Otrante had his hands full, I can tell you.  It had become a matter for the secret police; the coastguard or customs officials were no longer able to deal with it.

Then one day Hypolite Leroux came to see me.  I knew the man well—­a keen sleuthhound if ever there was one—­and well did he deserve his name, for he was as red as a fox.

“Ratichon,” he said to me, without preamble, as soon as he had seated himself opposite to me, and I had placed half a bottle of good Bordeaux and a couple of glasses on the table.  “I want your help in the matter of these English files.  We have done all that we can in our department.  M. le Duc has doubled the customs personnel on the Swiss frontier, the coastguard is both keen and efficient, and yet we know that at the present moment there are thousands of English files used in this country, even inside His Majesty’s own armament works.  M. le Duc d’Otrante is determined to put an end to the scandal.  He has offered a big reward for information which will lead to the conviction of one or more of the chief culprits, and I am determined to get that reward—­with your help, if you will give it.”

“What is the reward?” I asked simply.

“Five thousand francs,” he replied.  “Your knowledge of English and Italian is what caused me to offer you a share in this splendid enterprise—­”

“It’s no good lying to me, Leroux,” I broke in quietly, “if we are going to work amicably together.”

He swore.

“The reward is ten thousand francs.”  I made the shot at a venture, knowing my man well.

“I swear that it is not,” he asserted hotly.

“Swear again,” I retorted, “for I’ll not deal with you for less than five thousand.”

He did swear again and protested loudly.  But I was firm.

“Have another glass of wine,” I said.

After which he gave in.

The affair was bound to be risky.  Smugglers of English goods were determined and desperate men who were playing for high stakes and risking their necks on the board.  In all matters of smuggling a knowledge of foreign languages was an invaluable asset.  I spoke Italian well and knew some English.  I knew my worth.  We both drank a glass of cognac and sealed our bond then and there.