Bundercombe looked at him steadfastly.
"On my honor, Louis, the note is in my pocket, already torn in four pieces
when I put my hand into my waistcoat pocket to pay my bill. In three
minutes it will be in a hundred pieces--gone! You need have no fear. The
note Mr. Giatron is guarding so carefully is a very excellent ten-pound
note of my own."
At a quarter to eight on the following Monday week Mr. Bundercombe and I
entered Luigi's restaurant. Louis himself advanced to greet us--the old
Louis, whose linen was irreproachable, whose bearing and deportment and
gracious smile all denoted the Louis of old. Mr. Bundercombe ordered
dinner and beckoned Louis to come a little nearer.
"Was there any trouble?" he inquired.
"For me, no," Louis replied; "but Monsieur Giatron--never, never have I
seen a man like it! He fetched out the note. 'Now,' he said, 'I take your
notice! You take mine! Ring up the police! Or shall I?'
"Then I tell him. I say: 'I don't believe the note bad at all!' He laughed
at me. He got it from the safe and laid it on the desk. 'Not bad!' he
jeered. 'Not bad!' Then he stood looking at it.
"Mr. Bundercombe, I see his face change. His mouth came wide open; his
eyes looked as though they would drop out.
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