“Monsieur, when treating with you, three years ago, I thought I was dealing with a gentleman who, hiding himself under the uniform of the Foreign Legion, wished to recover the means to live respectably afterward.  To-day, I have to do with the universal legatee of Cosmo Mornington, with a man who, to-morrow, under a false name, will receive the sum of one million francs and, in a few months, perhaps, the sum of a hundred millions.  That’s quite a different thing.”

The argument seemed to strike Don Luis.  Nevertheless, he objected: 

“And, if I refuse—?”

“If you refuse, I shall inform the solicitor and the Prefect of Police that I made an error in my inquiry and that there is some mistake about Don Luis Perenna.  In consequence of which you will receive nothing at all and very likely find yourself in jail.”

“With you, my worthy sir.”

“Me?”

“Of course:  on a charge of forgery and tampering with registers.  For you don’t imagine that I should take it lying down.”

The attache did not reply.  His nose, which was a very big one, seemed to lengthen out still farther between his two long whiskers.

Don Luis began to laugh.

“Come, Senor Caceres, don’t pull such a face!  No one’s going to hurt you.  Only don’t think that you can corner me.  Better men than you have tried and have broken their backs in the process.  And, upon my word, you don’t cut much of a figure when you’re doing your best to diddle your fellowmen.

“You look a bit of a mug, in fact, Caceres:  a bit of a mug is what you look.  So it’s understood, what?  We lay down our arms.  No more base designs against our excellent friend Perenna.  Capital, Senor Caceres, capital.  And now I’ll be magnanimous and prove to you that the decent man of us two is—­the one whom any one would have thought!”

He produced a check-book on the Credit Lyonnais.

“Here, my dear chap.  Here’s twenty thousand francs as a present from Cosmo Mornington’s legatee.  Put it in your pocket and look pleasant.  Say thank you to the kind gentleman, and make yourself scarce without turning your head any more than if you were one of old man Lot’s daughters.  Off you go:  hoosh!”

This was said in such a manner that the attache obeyed Don Luis Perenna’s injunctions to the letter.  He smiled as he pocketed the check, said thank you twice over, and made off without turning his head.

“The low hound!” muttered Don Luis.  “What do you say to that, Sergeant?”

Sergeant Mazeroux was looking at him in stupefaction, with his eyes starting from his head.

“Well, but, Monsieur—­”

“What, Sergeant?”

“Well, but, Monsieur, who are you?”

“Who am I?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t they tell you?  A Peruvian nobleman, or a Spanish nobleman, I don’t know which.  In short, Don Luis Perenna.”

“Bunkum!  I’ve just heard—­”