"How did he come to do such a foolish thing as to offer to go on the
bail bond of a perfect stranger? What good could it do him? He was sure
to be caught."
"I don't know," said she. "He was always doing things like that. He
wanted to seem fine and grand, I guess. We always travelled in style.
Why, the afternoon he signed the bond he came home and told me how the
police had been troubling a gentleman who had a lady with him in an
automobile and how he was able to settle the whole affair without the
slightest difficulty and send them on their way. He was quite pleased
about it."
"But why do you suppose be did it?"
"He just thought he'd do 'em a favor," suggested O'Toole, "and in that
way get in wid 'em an' take their money later, mebbe!"
"Who is he? Do you know?" I asked the girl.
"I haven't the vaguest idea!" she sighed.
A week later Charles Julius Francis stood at the bar of justice
convicted of perjury. His degradation had wrought no change in the
dignity of his bearing or the impassiveness of his general appearance,
and he received the sentence of the Court without a tremor, and with
shoulders thrown back and head erect as befitted a scion of a noble
house.
"There's just one thing for me to do with you, Charles Francis," said
the Judge rudely, "And that is to send you to State Prison for a term of
five years at hard labor."
Francis made no sign.
"There is one other thing I should like to know, however," continued His
Honor, "And that is who you really are."
The prisoner bowed slightly.
"I am Charles Julius Francis," he replied quietly, "Duc de Nevers, and
Commander of the Legion of Honor."