Oh, my; a lot has happened since chapter 4!  First, the dangerous man on the island turns out to be one of a band of drug smugglers using the Troll villa as a headquarters.  The group's leader, the beautiful Kitty, likes the look of Duncan and decides to take the three hapless gentlemen along when the gang leaves the island.   But complications ensue (as one might expect, in the company of smugglers), and somehow our boys end up in an American jail.  Released but separated from Kitty and her men, they're stranded in New York City without a penny!  Meanwhile, Clotilda Troll has had word of chapter 4's storm and, feeling guilty over the turn things have taken, has set out with another of her devoted admirers (a large, long-suffering gentleman named Georgie Ludens) to find Duncan and the others ...

~~~~~

Mousquet narrates in his Tales of the Old World that M. Bertrand, finding himself the guest of Mine de Stael, confessed to having once spent the night on a park bench in the Bois de Boulogne. He ended his story with this observation: "There's no comparison between a marble bench and a feather bed." Even admitting that New World park benches, usually made of wood, are softer than those in the Bois de Boulogne, it isn't too difficult to understand how our three gentlemen, waking the following morning, could not help agreeing with M. Bertrand on the subject of park benches.

They dragged their aching bones and puffy eyes out of the park and entered New York. The tornado of people had already raised its ugly head. The coffee shops were overflowing with men and women devouring rolls and marmalade, ham and eggs. Septimius asked Duncan how long he thought a human being could survive without food.

"That depends," Duncan answered.

"I thought as much," Septimius said very thinly.

The three men walked a bit farther in silence. Then Clegg shook his head and stopped. "I can't go on," said Clegg. "My leg's out of joint."

Duncan and Septimius looked closely at Clegg's legs.  Clegg's left foot had done a complete about-face, while his right was pointing in the proper direction. That is to say, while Clegg's right foot aimed forward, his left aimed straight backward.

"Are you in pain?" the two men asked in unison.

"No, it's just hard to walk. This always happens when I walk too much. My legs begin to disagree with each other, as it were. The right wants to keep moving ahead and the left wants to go home. Eventually everything gets back to normal."

Duncan approached a passer-by and then returned with the answer to his question. "Let's go," he said. "It's only a block away."

Clegg protested, but the two men held him up between them and forced him to walk.

They arrived at something that appeared to be a ticket window. Duncan rang the bell and asked for the manager. It was a matter of great urgency, he said.

They were led into a large room whose walls were lined with shelves. Although his face was covered with several days' beard, Duncan played the Fitzmorris to the hilt, very distinguished and gushing charming, elegant prose. When an austere-looking gentleman with a great handlebar mustache presented himself, Duncan's impeccable manners immediately enabled him to enlist the man's sympathy for Clegg's plight.

The estimable doctor--that was what Duncan dubbed him--had a close look at Clegg's leg, asked Clegg to walk around the room, and then wanted to know how and when this had begun. Afterwards he drew Duncan into an adjoining room.

Fifteen minutes later Duncan was back, radiating satisfaction. "Just a few more minutes while the doctor makes out the papers. I sold him on the idea."

Clegg's eyes opened wide and he asked Duncan what it was that he'd been able to sell.

"Why, your leg, of course!" Duncan exclaimed. "He only wanted to buy the foot, but I made him understand that a foot without its leg is like a flower without a stem. He wouldn't give us any more than ninety dollars. But I've got another idea."

"You--you--" Clegg stammered, "you sold my leg? I won't allow it! Mr. Fitzmorris, that's immoral. A true gentleman does not sell his friend's leg!"

"A true gentleman never misses a chance to help his friends," Duncan pronounced severely. "A true gentleman is never selfish. A true gentleman would never starve himself or his friends out of petty pride. I evidently misjudged you, Mr. Clegg. Take back your leg. In the last analysis, of course you're right, the law does say that the leg belongs to you. Just as the law said Saint Martin's cloak belonged to Saint Martin, although Saint Martin did share it with his brother, the beggar who was freezing to death. Then again, Saint Martin was a gentleman..."

"Forgive me, Mr. Fitzmorris," Clegg stammered, blushing. "Forget every vulgar word that crossed my lips. You mustn't think ill of me. I am a gentleman just as Saint Martin was, and I will share my leg with my two hungry brothers."

"I'm very grateful to you," Duncan said, "and I'm sure Mr. North feels the same way."

Septimius bowed to Clegg and sat down again.

"Mr. Fitzmorris," Clegg whispered with tears in his eyes, "would you do me one favor: if anything happens to me during the operation..."

Duncan was stunned for a moment. Then he put his hands on Clegg's shoulder, "You must think they're going to cut off your leg! You're a far greater gentleman than Saint Martin, Mr. Clegg. A cloak doesn't begin to compare with a leg. But please don't worry. All you have to do is sign a paper willing your leg to Doctor Glinsky's hospital and it will be given to them on your death."

Clegg heaved a sigh of relief and Septimius wiped the sweat off his own forehead. The papers were signed, Clegg's leg was measured and catalogued, and finally the ninety dollars were handed over.

Poor Clegg had to walk around with them all day long. But at dusk Duncan totaled it up and said they now had $820. The leg had been bought by eight other clinics.

"Doesn't it seem to you, Mr. Fitzmorris, as if this whole deal is a little irregular?" Clegg asked timidly.

"Not in the slightest, Mr. Clegg. There may be nine beneficiaries, but they all have science in common and science is unique. The important thing is to study the phenomenon for the progress of science."

"Admirable!" Septimius agreed.

"Fine," said Clegg. "The only problem is, although it's a perfect imitation, my leg is made of wood covered with rubber."

Eight hundred twenty dollars in the hands of three men does not go a long way. Especially if the three men have to buy new wardrobes and take a suite in a good hotel.

Septimius was the one to sound the alarm after a couple of weeks: they had to find a source of income immediately.

Luckily Clegg soon came across an ad in the New York Herald: WANTED: GENTLEMEN. URGENT!

The three gentlemen hurried over to the address given and found themselves in a waiting room full of people. Men, women, children, waitresses, Negroes, gaudily dressed ladies. Duncan, Septimius, and Clegg were led into a smoky room partially filled by an enormous man wedged into an armchair, smoking a cigar and wearing a hat.

"Are you the fellow who's advertising for gentlemen?" asked Duncan as the fat man hung up the phone.

"Yeah, that's right. Where are they?"

"We are they," Duncan explained.

The fat man began to giggle. "You, gentlemen? Are you kidding me? I send the likes of you over to Mrs. Thompson's place and it's the end of a nice relationship."

This didn't upset Duncan. "I hate to disillusion you, sir, but we really are gentlemen. We even have the papers to prove it."

The fat man looked through their credentials. "In that case," he said after a while, "since you're foreigners, well, with foreigners anything goes. But just so you know where I stand, I don't buy it. Peggy!" he shouted. A good-looking redhead appeared. "Peggy," the fat man said, "get a load of these foreigners who claim to be gentlemen. What do you think, we can send them over to Mrs. Thompson's?"

Peggy loftily eyed Duncan, Septimius, and Clegg. She made a gesture that meant stand up straight. Then she shrugged. "Well, it's a night reception," she whispered. "If they stay out of the light they might do."

Duncan smiled. "At home we're thought of as perfect gentlemen even in broad daylight. Let me assure you, miss, we won't make you ashamed of us."

"Do you have penguin suits?" the fat man inquired.

"If you mean evening clothes, yes."

"All right, two dollars a night. When I provide the penguin suits, it's only one-fifty. In any case, watch yourselves!"

"In what sense?" Duncan asked.

"In the sense that, number one, if so much as a spoon is missing, your face gets smashed in. Number two, no picking up cigar butts. Three, no booze. Four, only two trips through the buffet line. Five, no swiping pastries and stuffing them into your pockets. Six, no swearing, spitting on walls or ceiling. Seven, no slapping guests on the back. Eight, don't speak unless you're spoken to. Mrs. Thompson will tell you what to say in case somebody does talk to you. In case you break any of the rules, you'll never see that two dollars."

Peggy put in a word. "Above all, no passes at any of the ladies."

Duncan spread his arms helplessly. "We can go along with one through eight, but about number nine, well, it depends."

"Depends on what?"

"If I found myself face to face with a girl as beautiful as you are, it wouldn't be a question of two dollars, it would be losing two thousand."

The fat man pushed his hat back. "Look here, punk," he growled, "how would you like to lose a mouthful of teeth?"

Duncan bowed. "If I weren't sure I could flatten you with one blow to the jaw, and if I weren't convinced you're a man of the world with a sense of humor, I would never have permitted myself to compliment this lady in your presence."

The fat man visually measured Duncan's shoulders and then smiled. "Can't imagine why I thought different, plain as the nose on your face you're a gentleman."

Then taking stock of Septimius's shoulders, which were if anything more impressive than Duncan's, he added, "That includes you."

Clegg's shoulders, however, were not so imposing. The fat man eyed him with disdain. Peggy intervened.

"Can you dance?"

"Very well," answered Duncan, smiling.

"Good, good," the fat man exclaimed. "Three dollars a night for dancing with any lady the hostess asks you to. Also you get four trips to the buffet. Only punch to drink, though. Mrs. Thompson complained about the last two gentlemen I sent her because you could smell the breath on them all the way across the room. No booze! And hands off the necklaces! You have such business, take it some place else, not to Mrs. Thompson's."

"Agreed," Duncan said.

"Okay, it's a deal. Here's a buck in advance. At nine tonight you come by here. I want to check to see you look all right."

At nine o'clock Duncan, Septimius, and Clegg presented themselves to the fat man in impeccable evening dress.

"I'm fainting," he said. "Just like real gentlemen. Look here, you, are you up to playing a count?"

"Why not?" said Duncan. "I am a count."

The fat man shook his head, but Peggy was looking at Duncan languidly.

"Fine, you play the count the way a count's supposed to be, I'll give you five bills instead of three. You only speak English?"

"No, I speak French, Spanish, Italian, German, and Russian as well."

The fat man pounded his fists on the table with glee. "A regular gold mine! Russian counts sell like hotcakes here. Mrs. Thompson shells out seven smackers for a Russian count."

Duncan, Septimius, and Clegg bowed so impressively that the fat man didn't know what to make of it. Then he blushed, took off his hat, and bowed back awkwardly. Peggy sighed. Then the three gentlemen departed.

"That one," the fat man commented, "either he's an international jewel thief or he's a count for real."

~~~~~

At Mrs. Thompson's home Duncan and the two other gentlemen stood in the foyer while the butler kept an eye on them. After an interminable wait, Mrs. Thompson turned up.

"Now let's have a look at you three," Mrs. Thompson said with authority. She turned on the lights and stood back to get the overall impression. On first inspection they seemed satisfactory. "Thank goodness, at least you're well dressed. The last fellow your boss sent had holes in his socks. Now walk around."

Duncan and his two companions paraded uncomfortably around the room.

"You're about as graceful as cowboys," Mrs. Thompson commented after she'd watched them through her lorgnette. "But, as I said, nice-looking clothes. I do like those clothes. Your boss should always dress his people in clothes like these. Do walk as little as possible," she admonished them. "I'll tell you when to walk."

"Yes, ma'am," said Duncan, bowing.

"And bear in mind there are two private detectives stationed in the ballroom," she warned them severely. "Keep your hands where they belong. I definitely do like those clothes. Really first-rate. Have you got weapons in your pockets?"

Duncan, Septimius, and Clegg turned out their pockets for her benefit.

"All right," Mrs. Thompson approved, still ogling their clothes. Then something crossed her mind. "And the count? Where's this count your boss promised me?"

Duncan bowed. "I am the count."

Mrs. Thompson gestured impatiently. Then, after she'd studied Duncan more closely through the lorgnette, she seemed reassured. "But..." she paused. "Precisely what kind of count do you intend playing?"

"The man at the agency said you'd prefer a Russian count," Duncan explained. But Mrs. Thompson shook her head, violently.

"I don't want any part of Russian counts," she said emphatically. "Everybody's got a Russian count now. None of this Russian count business. Even the middle class has Russian counts at their functions. Can't you be another nationality?"

"I could play an English lord, a German baron, a French count, an Italian prince..."

"Right, let's try the French count, nobody has one yet. Yes, absolutely, a French count. Let's see you do the French count."

Duncan stood still. Mrs. Thompson lost her temper. "Come on, young man! Where's this French count act? Don't stand there like a stick!"

Duncan smiled. "Really, Mrs. Thompson, French counts who don't have anything to do can only stand precisely the way I am standing. A French count must have occasion to show that he is a French count. Standing still, one count looks much the same as a count of any other nationality."

Mrs. Thompson had to agree that Duncan had a point.

"Let's see," she said after a little thought. "French counts are something special. I remember one night over at Mrs. Voght's there was a French count who made a big hit singing Volga Volga. Then he did a marvelous dance, squatting with his arms crossed. He was perfectly charming."

"Madam," Duncan began, "if I may be so bold, usually it's Russian counts who sing Volga Volga and do that sort of dance. But I must say, never in public. He must have been a counterfeit Russian count."

"Yes, yes," Mrs. Thompson exclaimed. "Of course, everybody knows that. Never mind. I can't remember for the life of me what a French count does. Think, young man. What are you going to do?"

"If you don't mind," Clegg interrupted, "I'd like to suggest that the central characteristic of a French count is gallantry. Better than anybody else, a French count knows how to compliment a lady."

"Finally. There we have it!" Mrs. Thompson exclaimed. "Of course: gallantry, chivalry, poetry, Latin blood, romanticism, everything romantic. A French count who isn't romantic isn't worth his salt."

Mrs. Thompson sat down on a sofa and told Clegg and Septimius to move to the other side of the room. Then she invited Duncan to sit beside her.

"All right, young man. Show me how a French count makes a compliment."

Duncan straightened his cravat, coughed lightly, and began to speak in a soft voice. "Madam," he said, "I love you."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Mrs. Thompson exclaimed. "Don't be so trite."

Duncan didn't bat an eyelash and continued in an even sweeter voice. "Yes, madam, it is trite. Everything of any importance in life is trite. Birth--death--everyone's born, everyone dies, everyone falls in love. It may be banal to tell an ordinary woman one loves her, but it is not banal to be in love with you. On the contrary. It is the most original thing in the world because you are the most beautiful woman in the world. To admire a flower is tedious, but to admire the most beautiful flower in all America is ecstasy. I do love you, madam, and I want to kiss your delicious lips, I want to caress your soft hair..."  Duncan went on diligently to list all the things he wanted to do to the exquisite Mrs. Thompson as his voice became tenderer, sweeter, more seductive.

After a while Mrs. Thompson threw her arms around him and sighed, "My darling."

Septimius and Clegg, watching from the other side of the room, couldn't restrain their enthusiasm. They exploded into bravos.

Mrs. Thompson started, tore away from Duncan, and jumped to her feet. "Fine. Admirable. Perfect," she stammered as she pulled herself together. "Very well done. But tone it down a little. I don't need any scandals. You know what I mean, Count?"

~~~~~

The grand ballroom of the Thompson's house was beautifully decorated that evening and mobbed with important people and ladies covered with jewelry. Clegg and Septimius behaved very well and made a good impression on everybody. But Duncan absolutely shone. He was earning his seven dollars in spades: he made hundreds of compliments, danced with every woman in the room including the decrepit ones, and executed a myriad of stunning bows.

The champagne and foul mixed drinks that Americans serve at parties lent a certain gaiety to the reception, but Duncan grew more bored by the minute. To keep himself awake, he decided to woo the wife of a banker named Babbitt. A quarter of an hour later, the estimable lady promised to start divorce proceedings against Babbitt the next day. Duncan excused himself delicately and withdrew to the terrace. Twenty minutes later a Mrs. Mayfair was whispering into his ear that the crowd and their boisterousness were depressing her and why didn't the two of them...

Yes, things were getting monotonous. Duncan hurried back into the ballroom. There his boredom disappeared. Mrs. Thompson introduced Duncan to the magnificent Spanish countess Mercedes de la Sierra, and he had the honor of accompanying her out to the terrace for a breath of fresh air, since the heavy atmosphere in the ballroom had got a bit on the distinguished lady's nerves.

"Kitty, what on earth are you doing here?" Duncan asked the beautiful blonde once they were alone...

"Duncan, dear Duncan," Kitty answered. "Obviously I'm playing the Spanish countess."

"Don't tell me you were sent by the agency too?" Duncan recounted the story of their employment, which much amused Kitty. Then she explained she was working on a man she had met the night before.

"Opium?"

"No."

"A swindle?"

"No," said Kitty. "Marriage."

"In that case, it's serious," said Duncan. Then he escorted Kitty into the ballroom, because between one kiss and another she'd informed him that her beau was about to arrive.

Duncan and Kitty dived into the tempestuous waves of people and danced until Kitty exclaimed, "Look, Duncan, over there in the corner. He's talking to Mrs. Thompson."

Duncan glanced toward the corner of the room. Beside Mrs. Thompson was a corpulent, distinguished-looking gentleman with a girl in black on his arm.

"Duncan, that's him!" Kitty said proudly.

The dance was over and Kitty took Duncan by the arm. "Come on, I'll introduce you. You dance with the girl and give me a chance to work on him. Don't worry, he told me he was coming with his cousin. Be good now."

When the corpulent gentleman saw Kitty in front of him his eyes opened wide and the scene that followed was swift and dramatic.

CORPULENT GENTLEMAN (embarrassed): Why Countess, what a pleasant surprise ... Let me introduce you to Miss Clotilda Troll ... Clotilda, this is Countess de la Sierra, the one I told you about...

KITTY (with surprise): How do you do, Miss Troll.

CORPULENT GENTLEMAN (breathlessly): Clo, if you'll excuse me, Duncan, if I may ... Countess, would you care to dance?

KITTY: Yes, yes, do let's dance, Mr. Ludens.

Kitty and Georgie disappeared in the mob of dancers and Duncan found himself face to face with Clotilda Troll.

~~~~~

Will Duncan tell Clotilda exactly what he thinks of her?  Will Clotilda explain to him why, if she really disliked him enough to kidnap and remove him from her town, she then travelled halfway around the world to find him when she thought him in danger? Will Duncan spend the rest of his days as a New York gigolo, or will he allow Clotilda to take him home?  And what about that castor oil? I recommend reading the whole book to find out!