"Why don't you do a job here?" says she.
"Here in Paris?" I answered.
"Yes. We can find you something." Quick as a flash she turned to the Pole. "Ivan," says she, "our guest, M. Clamart, is in need of money. Haven't you something that you could turn over to him?"
Everybody stopped talking and looked at the Pole. He drew his silky black moustache through his fingers and smiled.
"That would be interesting," says Chu-Chu. "I should like to see a demonstration of the skill of my American comrade. Come, Ivan, surely you have some little work that you might turn over to M. Clamart."
This sounds funny to you, maybe, but it was reasonable enough. Just like as if I might have been any other kind of a foreign sport, a pigeon-shooter or jockey or something like that. Ivan smiled again, then drew a note-book out of his pocket and began to turn the pages.
Léontine looked at me. "Ivan," says she, in her low voice, "is the one who arranges most of this work here in Paris. He has the entrée to many good houses, and when he goes into society he is on the lookout for an opening. When he finds one he turns it over to some of his people, giving them all the necessary information. Listen."
The Pole was studying his note-book. Presently he looked up and smiled. "Here is something which ought to pay," says he, "and which should not greatly tax the skill of so distinguished an expert as our friend. It is a private house on the Boule-
