mécanicien," says Ivan. "He is a useful man. Also, you came very near spoiling a good piece of work for me, although I could wish that you had if that unfortunate woman dies." A scowl crossed his handsome face. That Chu-Chu is the very devil, Mr. Clamart. There was absolutely no need for him to poison his victim. I know what he gave her. She would have been dead when the boat reached Calais if it had not been for her mal-de-mer. After your revelations in my office I would have broken with Chu-Chu had it not been that there was no one immediately available to put on the job. I am not a murderer, Mr. Clamart. To tell the truth, I am a bit of an artist, and promiscuous killing disgusts me. I have had enough of Chu-Chu. The pig never mentioned those gems that you took from him—or that I did," he smiled.
"The gems belonged to Baron Rosenthal," said I.
"To Rosenthal?" Ivan sprang up in his chair. "So much the worse."
"It is all right now," said I, "he has got them back."
"What?" cried Ivan, startled out of his self-control.
"I gave them back to him," said I. "You see, my dear Count, I do not boast when I say that I am a man of my word. Meeting Rosenthal in the Automobile Club he told me of his loss. He is an old friend of mine, and once saved me from a South American prison. They are not pleasant places. I told him that I had been for many years a professional thief and that in a quarrel with a confrère on a
