That night the good man and his wife scarcely closed their eyes, and the next day, accompanied by the General, they visited Bordeaux and the neighboring towns and broke the news gently to the other heirs.  There was M. Pettit, the veterinary at Mormand; Tessier, the blacksmith in Bordeaux; M. Pelegue and his wife, M. Rozier, M. Cazenava and his son, and others.  One branch of the family lived in Brazil—­the Joubin Freres and one Tessier of “Saint Bezeille.”  These last had to be reached by post, a most annoyingly slow means of communication—­mais que voulez-vous?

Those were busy days in and around Bordeaux, and the General was the centre of attraction.  What a splendid figure he cut in his tall silk hat and gold-headed cane!  But they were all very careful to let no inkling of their good fortune leak out, for it might spoil everything—­give some opportunity to the spies of the impostor Lespinasse to fabricate new chains of title or to prepare for a defense of the fortune.  The little blacksmith, being addicted to white wine, was the only one who did not keep his head.  But even he managed to hold his mouth sufficiently shut.  A family council was held; M. le General was given full power of attorney to act for all the heirs; and each having contributed an insignificant sum toward his necessary expenses, they waved him a tremulous good-by as he stood on the upper deck of the steamer, his silk hat in one hand and his gold-headed cane in the other.

“He will get it, if any one can!” cried the blacksmith enthusiastically.

“It is as good as ours already!” echoed Rozier.

“My friends,” Madame Lapierre assured them, “a General of the armies of Spain and a Chevalier of the Order of Jiminez would die rather than fail in his mission.  Besides,” she added, her French blood asserting itself, “he is to get nineteen per cent. of the inheritance!”

As long as the steamer remained in sight the General waved encouragingly, his hat raised toward Heaven.

“Mais,” says Lapierre, with another shrug as he lights his pipe, “even you would have believed him. Vraiment!  He would have deceived the devil himself!”

Up the road the wain comes creaking back again.  A crow flaps across the vineyard, laughing scornfully at good M. Lapierre, and you yourself wonder if such a thing could have been possible.

On a rainy afternoon in March, 1905, there entered the writer’s office in the Criminal Courts Building, New York City, a ruddy, stoutly-built man, dressed in homespun garments, accompanied by an attractive and vivacious little woman, who, while unable to speak a single word of English, had no difficulty in making it obvious that she had a story to tell of the most vital importance.  An interpreter was soon found and the names of the visitors disclosed.  The lady, who did the talking for both of them, introduced herself as Madame Valoie Reddon, of Bordeaux, and her companion as M. Emile Lapierre, landowner, of Monsegur,