"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 Hôtel Royal, Weet-sur-Mer._

"Well," he said, "it's mine--I guess there's no question of that--I'm
the proprietor--pro tem," and he tore the envelope open. A low whistle
escaped him as he read the message. Then he slapped his leg and laughed.
"It's a freak of the market," he cried. "A freak of the market! And it's
just my luck to be in on the ground floor!"

He folded the telegram and placed it carefully in his pocket. Then he
fell again into a meditation punctuated by frequent chuckles. But at
the end of a very few minutes, Monsieur Pelletan was back again, with a
thin little notary in tow, and the necessary papers were soon drawn up.

"You have only to sign, monsieur," said the notary, after he had
finished reading them aloud, and he handed his formidable pen to
Rushford.

Monsieur Pelletan rubbed his hands together nervously as the American
hesitated and looked at him.