“By all means,” he answered.  “Anything to keep this fellow from further impertinences!  And, I say, don’t you think you’d better suggest at the same time that the men should smoke?  Even these ladies are not above a cigarette—­some of them.”

There was a sigh of relief.  The lights burned brightly.  The Seer for the moment retired from business, so to speak.  He accepted a partaga with a very good grace, sipped his coffee in a corner, and chatted to the lady who had suggested Strafford with marked politeness.  He was a polished gentleman.

Next morning, in the hall of the hotel, I saw Madame Picardet again, in a neat tailor-made travelling dress, evidently bound for the railway-station.

“What, off, Madame Picardet?” I cried.

She smiled, and held out her prettily-gloved hand.  “Yes, I’m off,” she answered archly.  “Florence, or Rome, or somewhere.  I’ve drained Nice dry—­like a sucked orange.  Got all the fun I can out of it.  Now I’m away again to my beloved Italy.”

But it struck me as odd that, if Italy was her game, she went by the omnibus which takes down to the train de luxe for Paris.  However, a man of the world accepts what a lady tells him, no matter how improbable; and I confess, for ten days or so, I thought no more about her, or the Seer either.

At the end of that time our fortnightly pass-book came in from the bank in London.  It is part of my duty, as the millionaire’s secretary, to make up this book once a fortnight, and to compare the cancelled cheques with Sir Charles’s counterfoils.  On this particular occasion I happened to observe what I can only describe as a very grave discrepancy,—­in fact, a discrepancy of 5000 pounds.  On the wrong side, too.  Sir Charles was debited with 5000 pounds more than the total amount that was shown on the counterfoils.

I examined the book with care.  The source of the error was obvious.  It lay in a cheque to Self or Bearer, for 5000 pounds, signed by Sir Charles, and evidently paid across the counter in London, as it bore on its face no stamp or indication of any other office.

I called in my brother-in-law from the salon to the study.  “Look here, Charles,” I said, “there’s a cheque in the book which you haven’t entered.”  And I handed it to him without comment, for I thought it might have been drawn to settle some little loss on the turf or at cards, or to make up some other affair he didn’t desire to mention to me.  These things will happen.

He looked at it and stared hard.  Then he pursed up his mouth and gave a long low “Whew!” At last he turned it over and remarked, “I say, Sey, my boy, we’ve just been done jolly well brown, haven’t we?”

I glanced at the cheque.  “How do you mean?” I inquired.

“Why, the Seer,” he replied, still staring at it ruefully.  “I don’t mind the five thou., but to think the fellow should have gammoned the pair of us like that—­ignominious, I call it!”