subordinates had sticky fingers.
One of these places was a discreet apartment in the very best quarter of
Paris. Here he was the Scottish Nobleman of the Old School. The decorations
were rich but not gaudy; even the ancestors were not overdone. The place of
honour was occupied by Rob Roy's claymore, alleged. One of his claims was
that the Highland Cateran was his ancestor, owing to a liason with a fairy.
Another claim was that he himself was James IV of Scotland, that he had
survived the Battle of Flodden Field, become an adept, and immortal. Despite
what to a profane mind might seem the incompatibility of these two legends
— to say nothing of the improbability of either — they were greedily
swallowed by the Theosophist section of his following.
In this apartment he received the credulous type of person who is
impressed by rank; and no man [238] could play the part of stateliness better
than this old reprobate.
His other place was of the hermit's cell model, a tiny cottage with its well-
kept garden; such abound all over Paris in the most unexpected spots.
He actually imposed upon the old lady who kept this house for him. Here
he was the simple old man of utter holiness, the lonely recluse, the saintly
anchorite, his only food bruised herbs or pulse, his only drink the same as
quenched the thirst of Father Adam. His long absences from this sacrosanct
abode were explained by the fact of his absorption in trance, in which he was
supposed to indulge underground. Of course he only visited the place when
he had to receive a certain type of  visitor, that loftier type which has enough
rank and wealth to know that they are not necessary to a search after Truth,
and is impressed by simplicity and saintliness.
It was at the former address that the Count received Mr. Butcher. He was
dressed in severe and refined broadcloth, with the rosette of the Legion of
Honour — to which he was well entitled — in his buttonhole.
In presence of this splendour the American was ill at ease; but Douglas
knew how to make a man his own by giving him a good conceit of himself.
"I am proud to meet you, Mr. Butcher," he began, affably. "May I beg of
you to take the trouble to be seated! The chair is worthy of you," he added,
with a smile; "it was at one time the property of Frederick the Great."
The servant, who was dressed as a Highland Gillie in gala costume, offered
cigars and whisky.
"Say, this is sure some whisky, Count! This is where I fall off the wagon,
one time, John. You watch my batting average!" observed Mr. Butcher,