Plainly the game was in Peyrot’s hands; we could play only to his lead.

“If you will put the packet into my hands, seal unbroken, this day at eleven, I engage to meet you with twenty pistoles,” M. Etienne said.

“Twenty pistoles were a fair price for the packet.  But monsieur forgets the wear and tear on my conscience incurred for him.  I must be reimbursed for that.”

“Conscience, quotha!”

“Certainly, monsieur.  I am in my way as honest a man as you in yours.  I have never been false to the hand that fed me.  If, therefore, I divert to you a certain packet which of rights goes elsewhere, my sin must be made worth my while.  My conscience will sting me sorely, but with the aid of a glass and a lass I may contrive to forget the pain.

     Mirth, my love, and Folly dear,
     Baggages, you’re welcome here!

I fix the injury to my conscience at thirty pistoles, M. le Comte.  Fifty in all will bring the packet to your hand.”

It had been a pleasure to M. le Comte to fling a tankard in the fellow’s face.  But the steadfast determination to win the papers for Monsieur, and, possibly, respect for Peyrot’s weapon, withheld him.

“Very well, then.  In the cabaret of the Bonne Femme, at eleven.  You may do as you like about appearing; I shall be there with my fifty pistoles.”

“What guaranty have I that you will deal fairly with me?”

“The word of a St. Quentin.”

“Sufficient, of course.”

The scamp rose with a bow.

“Well, I have not the word of a gentleman to offer you, but I give you the opinion of Jean Peyrot, sometime Father Ambrosius, that he and the packet will be there.  This has been a delightful call, monsieur, and I am loath to let you go.  But it is time I was free to look for that packet.”

M. Etienne’s eyes went over to the chest.

“I wish you all success in your arduous search.”

“It is like to be, in truth, a long and weary search,” Peyrot sighed.  “My ignorance of the perpetrators of the outrage makes my task difficult indeed.  But rest assured, monsieur, that I shall question every man in Paris, if need be.  I shall leave no stone unturned.”

M. Etienne still pensively regarded the chest.

“If you leave no key unturned, ’twill be more to the purpose.”

“You appear yet to nurse the belief that I have the packet.  But as a matter of fact, monsieur, I have not.”

I studied his grave face, and could not for the life of me make out whether he were lying.  M. Etienne said merely: 

“Come, Felix.”

“You’ll drink a glass before you go?” Peyrot cried hospitably, running to fill a goblet muddy with his last pouring.  But M. Etienne drew back.

“Well, I don’t blame you.  I wouldn’t drink it myself if I were a count,” Peyrot said, setting the draught to his own lips.  “After this noon I shall drink it no more all summer.  I shall live like a king.