CHAPTER II

I was in Paris by the end of the following afternoon, and as I dined
that evening, purposely alone, at a favourite haunt, I thought much and
carefully over the matter which had brought me to the French capital. It
was a quest which might be trying, long, and eventually barren of
result. True, I was not exactly in the position of one who seeks a
needle in a bottle of hay, for my letters of introduction would
doubtless be of some assistance, nevertheless, I had no direct clue, and
Penkfether’s supposition that the facsimile—carefully bestowed in a
secret pocket within my waistcoat—had been made in Paris might be
wrong, for it might have been made in London, or Vienna, or Amsterdam.
One fact I assumed to be positively certain—this facsimile butterfly
had been made in secrecy. For my theory was that some person, probably
an expert thief, had somehow contrived to obtain possession of the
genuine Massingham Butterfly long enough to enable him to have a
facsimile made, and had substituted that counterfeit for the real at a
convenient season. There were reasons against that theory. One, for
instance, was that it was difficult to understand why, if the thief had
once possessed himself of the real butterfly, he should trouble to have
an imitation made of it; but when I considered all of them I still clung
to it. And with me, personally, the mystery of the affair began to make
a strong, growingly fascinating appeal.

I admit that I had been tempted to wonder if the good faith of the
marquis and marchioness was to be implicitly trusted. I could see now,
if they were not honest, a very serious fraud could be successfully
carried out against Penkfether, due, of course, to his own laxity in not
examining the first pledge. But I had never heard anything against these
two—the mere fact that they were both addicted to betting was no
indication of shadiness—and I was inclined to agree with Penkfether in
his view of them. And while I had little doubt that there had been fraud
of some sort I came to the conclusion that it had been against them. But
by whom, and when, and where, and how, and for what reason?

My first inquiries, made under conditions of the strictest secrecy,
yielded no result. I told what was necessary of my story to several
persons to whom Penkfether’s letters introduced me. I showed the
counterfeit to several experts. None of them—all makers of such things
themselves—knew anything of it. But they were all agreed upon one
point—it had been made within the last twelve months, and the work was
that of a master hand at his craft.

It was not until the fourth day of my inquiries that I came upon a gleam
of light. It was afforded by an old gentleman, a manufacturing jeweller,
who at sight of the counterfeit butterfly uttered a sharp exclamation.

“Monsieur,” said he, “there is only one man in all Europe who could have
made that! He is a man who at one time worked for me, but I have not
seen, nor, indeed, heard of him, for some two years, perhaps longer. His
name is Roubiaux. He is a genius, and a queer fellow. I would stake much
that this was made by him.”

“I would give a good deal to be able to ask him to identify this work,
monsieur,” I answered.

The old gentleman reflected a little, excused himself, and went into his
workshop, and eventually returned with a scrap of paper on which an
address had been scribbled with the stump of a pencil.

“One of my men,” said he, “says that Roubiaux was living at this place a
few months ago, and may still be there. Himself he has not seen Roubiaux
lately. But if monsieur likes to call there on the chance? And let me
tell you, monsieur, that this Roubiaux is, as I said, a queer fellow.
Eccentric, you understand, and of the devil of a temper. But—also as I
have said—a veritable genius.”

I went around to the working class quarter indicated by the scribbled
address. The house which I entered was one of the most prosperous in
appearance, and its concierge, a shabby old man, looked askance at my
fine clothes as I inquired for M. Roubiaux.

“Right at the top, monsieur,” said he, pointing upward. “And monsieur
may have his journey for nothing.”

“You mean M. Roubiaux may not be in?” I asked.

“Roubiaux is always in,” he answered grimly. “But Roubiaux only opens
his door if he pleases, monsieur.”

I took the chance of that, and toiled up several flights of stairs until
I reached the proper number. On the door I knocked several times without
receiving any reply. And I was about to go away when one of my fortunate
ideas struck me. I took out a blank card and wrote a message in French.

“An English gentleman, recommended to M. Roubiaux by M. Virlet, desires
to see him in reference to the execution of an important commission.”

I thrust the card under the door and again knocked. And suddenly the
door was opened and a big, unkempt, bearded man, wearing a loose smock
like that of the Parisian ouvrier, thrust himself out, and closed the
door behind him, and stared at me.

“I don’t admit anyone to my apartment,” he said gruffly. “I have a sick
wife. Monsieur wishes——”

“To see you about some work, M. Roubiaux,” I said.

“M. Virlet—that was the old manufacturing jeweller—gave me your name.
I am sorry to incommode you. Perhaps you can call upon me?”

The man hesitated, pulled at his beard, and examined me closely.

“If monsieur will await me at the foot of the stair,” he suggested, “I
will get a neighbour to sit with my wife, and will join monsieur. There
is a café close by where I can take monsieur’s orders.”

I went downstairs and waited till he came down. In the few minutes which
had elapsed he had put on a well-worn suit of blue serge and a red tie;
these things, and his big, slouched hat, went well with his black beard,
and made a striking figure.

I noticed then, as I noticed afterwards, how remarkably slender and
delicate were the fingers which he raised to his beard from time to
time. He was big enough to possess the hands of a blacksmith, but those
fingers were the fingers of the true artist, nervous, keenly alive to
the finest shades of touch and feeling. I fancied them at work on the
delicate craftsmanship of the facsimile butterfly in my pocket.

My companion, who had narrowly inspected me at our first meeting, led
the way out of the neighbourhood to a more pretentious quarter, where he
indicated a respectable café. It was then in the middle of the
afternoon, and few people were within. Selecting a quiet corner I
invited him to share a bottle of wine and to smoke a cigar. And while a
waiter attended to my orders I swiftly considered my plan of campaign.
Was I to adopt a bold policy, or was I to try to find out whatever there
was to find out—which might be nothing—by finesse? Roubiaux himself,
however, gave me an opening.

“Monsieur wishes me to do some work for him?” he said. “On M. Virlet’s
recommendation?”

“M. Virlet,” said I, “says you are a genius. The particular work I was
thinking of was facsimile work.”

“Oh, I have done much in that line,” he responded readily. “I have
worked in several mediums, monsieur—metals, stones, mosaic. I can
imitate anything—given opportunity, time and materials.”

“Materials,” I observed, as the waiter poured out the wine, “are of the
greatest importance in imitative work?”

“Oh, undoubtedly, monsieur! For myself I should refuse to work unless I
were supplied with the best materials to be procured,” he answered.

“You could make an imitation of a diamond brooch, or a pendant, or a
necklace, that could not be told from its original?” I asked.

“Certainly, monsieur—with the proper materials,” he replied. “I have
done much work of that sort. Replicas, monsieur understands.”

I had determined on a bold stroke—it was best. And suddenly, as he set
down his glass over which he had just bowed to me, I took out the
counterfeit butterfly, snapped open the case which shielded it, and held
the ornament before him.

“Is that your work?” I asked bluntly.

I knew instantly that it was. The artist’s pride in a particularly
clever achievement of his own immediately flashed into the man’s eyes.
He was just applying a match to his cigar; in his astonishment he
dropped both cigar and match.

“Name of a——” he burst out. “Monsieur, where did you get that?”

“Is it your work?” I asked again.

He laughed as he picked up his cigar.

“My faith, monsieur,” he exclaimed, “there is no other craftsman in
Europe who could have done it. But how did it come into your possession,
monsieur?”

He gave me a long, keen look, and once more I resolved to be bold. I
have always been a believer in bold strokes when real business came to
be done.

“Listen!” I said. “I will give you 2,000 francs, Roubiaux, if you will
tell me when, where and under what circumstances you made this. To be
plain—that is my business with you.”

I saw that it was only going to be a question of terms. At the mention
of money his eyes became greedy.

“So?” he said. “Ah! Well then, monsieur, I often wondered if I should
ever be asked. And indeed it is a strange story. I will tell it to
monsieur for 3,000 francs.”

“Two thousand five hundred, Roubiaux, and not a sou more,” I said
firmly. “And the money shall be yours as soon as the story is told.
See,” I continued, producing my pocket book and counting out the
necessary notes, “here is the amount. I fold these notes, I put them
under this plate. You shall pick them up when I have heard all you have
to tell.”

He looked at the money as if his fingers itched to handle it, and he
nodded his big head.

“I accept monsieur’s offer,” he said. “And I will tell—everything.
Monsieur asks three questions. When? About a year ago. Where? In London.
Under what circumstances? Ah, monsieur, under the most suspicious
circumstances! Listen then, monsieur.”

He lighted his cigar, sipped at his wine, and folding his arms upon the
table between us, began to tell his story with evident enjoyment.