“Not in the least.  I am quite serious.”

“But I am not an actor.”

“You told me that you could be.”

“Oh, upon occasion... a small part, perhaps... "

“Well, here is a big part — the chance to arrive at a single stride.  How many men have had such a chance?”

“It is a chance I do not covet, M. Binet.  Shall we change the subject?” He was very frosty, as much perhaps because he scented in M. Binet’s manner something that was vaguely menacing as for any other reason.

“We’ll change the subject when I please,” said M. Binet, allowing a glimpse of steel to glimmer through the silk of him.  “To-morrow night you play Scaramouche.  You are ready enough in your wits, your figure is ideal, and you have just the kind of mordant humour for the part.  You should be a great success.”

“It is much more likely that I should be an egregious failure.”

“That won’t matter,” said Binet, cynically, and explained himself.  “The failure will be personal to yourself.  The receipts will be safe by then.”

“Much obliged,” said Andre-Louis.

“We should take fifteen louis to-morrow night.”

“It is unfortunate that you are without a Scaramouche,” said Andre-Louis.

“It is fortunate that I have one, M. Parvissimus.”

Andre-Louis disengaged his arm.  “I begin to find you tiresome,” said he.  “I think I will return.”

“A moment, M. Parvissimus.  If I am to lose that fifteen louis... you’ll not take it amiss that I compensate myself in other ways?”

“That is your own concern, M. Binet.”

“Pardon, M. Parvissimus.  It may possibly be also yours.”  Binet took his arm again.  “Do me the kindness to step across the street with me.  Just as far as the post-office there.  I have something to show you.”

Andre-Louis went.  Before they reached that sheet of paper nailed upon the door, he knew exactly what it would say.  And in effect it was, as he had supposed, that twenty louis would be paid for information leading to the apprehension of one Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of Gavrillac, who was wanted by the King’s Lieutenant in Rennes upon a charge of sedition.

M. Binet watched him whilst he read.  Their arms were linked, and Binet’s grip was firm and powerful.

“Now, my friend,” said he, “will you be M. Parvissimus and play Scaramouche to-morrow, or will you be Andre-Louis Moreau of Gavrillac and go to Rennes to satisfy the King’s Lieutenant?”

“And if it should happen that you are mistaken?” quoth Andre-Louis, his face a mask.

“I’ll take the risk of that,” leered M. Binet.  “You mentioned, I think, that you were a lawyer.  An indiscretion, my dear.  It is unlikely that two lawyers will be in hiding at the same time in the same district.  You see it is not really clever of me.  Well, M. Andre-Louis Moreau, lawyer of Gavrillac, what is it to be?”