The latter dragged away up the stair with a
countenance in which grief and joy struggled for the mastery. "Anyt'ing
else, monsieur?" asked the Frenchman, coming back.
"No, I don't think of anything just at this moment. But you do your part
and I'll do mine. Now suppose you go out and get the notary, while I
work my brain a bit."
Pelletan staggered rather than walked to the door, his head in his
hands, fairly overwhelmed. A moment later, Rushford saw him hurrying
down the street. He got out a third cigar and settled back in his chair
with a chuckle of satisfaction.
"Maybe I'll get some fun out of this thing, after all," he said. "It'll
offer a little diversion, anyway. Now, how shall we begin to advertise?"
"M. le Proprietaire, is he here?" inquired a voice, and Rushford looked
around to see a man in resplendent uniform standing at the door.
"That's me, I reckon," he said.
"This is my first day," explained the man; "I will know monsieur
hereafter. I have a telegram," and he produced it. "Monsieur will make
acknowledgment here," he added, and held out a narrow white slip of
paper.
Rushford signed his name mechanically, dropped a franc into the itching
palm, and waited till the messenger went out. Then he looked at the
address on the envelope. It was:
_Proprietor Grand Hotel Royal, Weet-sur-Mer.
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