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the stooping figure of the shepherd. "Now, you see this prominent citizen. What's he doing?"

"He is stooping," said Paul, fervently, "to bestow upon his loved one a kiss. And she, sleeping, all unconscious, dreaming of him——"

"Never mind about her. Fix your mind on him. Willie is the 'star' in this show. You have summed him up accurately. He is stooping. Stooping—good. Now, if that fellow was wearing braces and stooped like that, you'd say he'd bust those braces, wouldn't you?"

With a somewhat dazed air Paul said that he thought he would. Till now he had not looked at the figure from just that view-point.

"You'd say he'd bust them?"

"Assuredly, monsieur."

"No!" said the young man, solemnly, tapping him earnestly on the chest. "That's where you're wrong. Not if they were Galloway's Tried and Proven. Galloway's Tried and Proven will stand any old strain you care to put on them. See small bills. Wear Galloway's Tried and Proven, and fate cannot touch you. You can take it from me. I'm the company's general manager."

"Indeed, monsieur!"

"And I'll make a proposition to you. Cut out that mossy bank, and make the girl lying in a hammock. Put Willie in shirtsleeves instead of a bathrobe, and fix him up with a pair of the Tried and Proven, and I'll give you three thousand dollars for that picture and a retaining fee of four thousand a year to work for us and nobody else for any number of years you care to mention. You've got the goods. You've got just the touch. That happy look on Willie's face, for instance. You can see in a minute why he's so happy. It's because he's wearing the Tried and Proven, and he knows that however far he stoops they won't break. Is that a deal?"

Paul's reply left no room for doubt. Seizing the young man firmly round the waist, he kissed him with extreme fervour on both cheeks.

"Here, break away!" cried the astonished general manager. "That's no way to sign a business contract."

 

It was at about five minutes after one that afternoon that Constable Thomas Parsons, patrolling his beat, was aware of a man motioning to him from the doorway of Bredin's Parisian Café and Restaurant. The man looked like a pig. He grunted like a pig. He had the lavish embonpoint of a pig. Constable Parsons suspected that he had a porcine soul. Indeed, the thought flitted across Constable Parsons' mind that, if he were to tie a bit of blue ribbon round his neck, he could win prizes with him at a show.

"What's all this?" he inquired, halting.

The stout man talked volubly in French. Constable Parsons shook his head.

"Talk sense," he advised.

"In dere," cried the stout man, pointing behind him into the restaurant, "a man, a—how you say?—yes, sacked. An employé whom I yesterday sacked, to-day he returns. I say to him, 'Cochon, va!'"

"What's that?"

"I say, 'Peeg, go!' How you say? Yes, 'pop off!' I say, 'Peeg, pop off!' But he—no, no; he sits and will not go. Come in, officer, and expel him."

With massive dignity the policeman entered the restaurant. At one of the tables sat Paul, calm and distrait. From across the room Jeanne stared freezingly.

"With massive dignity the policeman entered."

"What's all this?" inquired Constable Parsons. Paul looked up.

"I, too," he admitted, "I cannot understand. Figure to yourself, monsieur. I enter this café to lunch, and this man here would expel me."

"He is an employé whom I—I myself—have but yesterday dismissed," vociferated M. Bredin. "He has no money to lunch at my restaurant."

The policeman eyed Paul sternly.

"Eh?" he said. "That so? You'd better come along."

Paul's eyebrows rose.

Before the round eyes of M. Bredin he began to produce from his pockets and to lay upon the table bank-notes and sovereigns. The cloth was covered with them.