“That’s all right, mon ami.  It is not too much.  It’s a perfectly fair bargain, and—­to please me if you like—­I want you to accept it.  You will find there is plenty to do, possibly more than you anticipate.  So—­suppose we consider it settled, eh?”

De Montville was silent.

“We’ll call it done,” Mordaunt said.  “Have a cigarette!”

He held his case in front of the Frenchman, and after a moment de Montville took one.  But he only balanced it in his fingers, still saying nothing.

“A light?” suggested Mordaunt.

He made a jerky movement, and glanced up for an instant.  “Mr. Mordaunt,” he said, speaking with evident difficulty, “what is—­a pal?”

“A pal,” Mordaunt said, smiling slightly, “is a special kind of friend, Bertrand—­the best kind, the sort you open your heart to in trouble, the sort that is always ready to stand by.”

“Such a friend as you have been to me?” questioned de Montville slowly.

“Well, if you like to say so,” Mordaunt said.  “I almost think we might call ourselves pals by this time.  What say you?”

“I, monsieur?” He reached up and grasped the hand that rested on his shoulder.  “For myself I ask no better,” he said, in a voice that quivered beyond control, “than to be to you what you have been to me.  And I will sooner die by my own hand than give you cause to regret your kindness.”

“Which you never will,” Mordaunt said.  “Come, light up, man!  Here’s a match!”

He held it up, and de Montville had perforce to place the cigarette between his lips.  His throat was working spasmodically, but with a valiant effort he managed to inhale a mouthful of smoke.  He choked over it badly the next moment, however, and Mordaunt patted his back with much goodwill till he was better.

“There, my dear fellow, lie down now and take it easy.  I’m dining out; but Holmes has special orders to look after you; and if you are wanting anything, in the name of common-sense ask for it.”

With that he turned from the sofa, took up the photograph that lay upon his writing-table, hesitated an instant, then thrust it into his breast-pocket, and strolled out of the room.

CHAPTER IX

A CONFESSION

“So you don’t like my photograph!” said Chris.

“Why do you say that?”

“I could see you didn’t.  What’s the matter with it?  Isn’t it pretty enough?  It’s just like me.”

“Yes, it’s just like you,” Mordaunt admitted.

“Then you don’t like me?” suggested Chris.

He smiled at that.  “Yes, I like you very much.  But—­”

“Well?” said Chris, her deep-sea eyes full of eager curiosity.  “Go on, please!”

“Well,” he said, “that photograph is not one that I could show to my friends.”

“But why not—­if it’s just like me?”

He took her chin and turned her face gently to the light.  “Try again,” he said, “without Cinders.”