The day after our return to the ranch we rode over to see how the
Baron fared. We found him in a tent pitched as far as possible from
the evil-smelling lake. Passing the bungalow, we had noted that six
weeks' uninterrupted sunshine had played havoc with the Baron's
garden. The man himself, moreover, seemed to have wilted. The sun had
sucked the colour from his eyes and cheeks. Of a sudden, old age had
overtaken him.
He greeted us with his usual courtesy, and asked if we had enjoyed our
holiday. We told him many things about Del Monte, but we didn't
mention the French Consul. Then, in our turn, we begged for such news
as he might have. He replied solemnly--
"I speak no more wiz ze Dumbles. Old man Dumble ees a fraud.
_Moi_, I abominate frauds--_hein?_ He obtain my money onder
false pretences, is it not so? Ah, yes; but I forgive 'im, because he
is poor. But also, since you go, he obtain my secret--I haf a secret--
under false pretences. Oh, ze _canaille_! I tell 'im that if 'e
were my equal I would wiz my sword s-spit 'im. Because 'e is
_canaille_ I s-s-spit at 'im. _Voila!_"
The old fellow was trembling with rage and indignation.
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