name was Peters, who thus oddly purchased a coat, and that he took it
to the Rue de Rivoli, to a hotel where he lodged, from the little low,
dark auction room by the Seine in which he concluded the bargain.
There he examined it, off and on, all day and much of the next
morning, a light brown overcoat with tails, without discovering any
excuse, far less a reason, for having spent twenty pounds on so worn a
thing. And late next morning to his sitting room looking out on the
Gardens of the Tuileries the man with the furious look was ushered in.

Grim he stood, silent and angry, till the guiding waiter went. Not
till then did he speak, and his words came clear and brief, welling up
from deep emotions.

"How did you dare to bid against me?"

His name was Santiago. And for many moments Peters found no excuse to
offer, no apology, nothing in extenuation. Lamely at last, weakly,
knowing his argument to be of no avail, he muttered something to the
intent that Mr. Santiago could have outbid him.

"No," said the stranger. "We don't want all the town in this. This
is a matter between you and me." He paused, then added in his fierce,
curt way: "A thousand pounds, no more."

Almost dumbly Peters accepted the offer and, pocketing the thousand
pounds that was paid him, and apologizing for the inconvenience he had
unwittingly caused, tried to show the stranger out. But Santiago
strode swiftly on before him, taking the coat, and was gone.

There followed between Peters and his second thoughts another long