A STROKE OF GENIUS
The American detective Tom Bob was no ordinary man. The very first
day after his arrival he had signalized his presence and drawn public
attention to himself in a manner at once original and redounding
greatly to his credit. Within a few hours of landing on French soil
he had shown his mettle by the arrest of a dangerous malefactor, a
professional criminal, “Beauty Boy,” the apache. The same day he had
adroitly escaped an abominable attempt on his life, and, to crown all,
in the course of a series of interviews accorded to the reporters
of the different newspapers, he had, in direct contradiction to the
generally received opinion, stoutly maintained that the ex-journalist
Fandor, the bosom friend of the man Juve, now incarcerated in the
prison of _La Santé_, was a very honest man, the last person to have
committed the crimes imputed to him.
* * * * *
For several days, in fact up to the time Tom Bob had come to divert the
public curiosity, the Inspectors of the Criminal Investigation Bureau
had carried out the most minute investigations at the house where the
bank messenger’s murder was supposed, if not to have been committed,
at any rate to have been planned and prepared. For whole days together
police-officers in plain clothes pursued careful inquiries, questioning
the inmates, even going so far as to collect evidence as to the past
life and antecedents of each of the tenants.
True, no actual trace had been found of the unfortunate employé of the
Comptoir National, but the uniform button discovered in the garret
where M. Moche had with such misplaced generosity, as he said himself,
given a charitable asylum to Fandor made it reasonable to conclude,
without any undue pressing of the evidence, that the collector had
disappeared not of his own free will and initiative, but simply
because he had been first robbed and then murdered. Was the same
assassin also responsible for the death of the police-officers? Was
Fandor the author of both crimes? Many members of the Department were
inclined to think he was, though others hesitated to commit themselves
to any definite opinion.
At any rate, there was one certainty, one sure fact, that delighted
the inmates of No. 125 Rue Saint-Fargeau, to wit, that the police,
diverted from the old line of scent and henceforth mainly preoccupied
to discover the assassin of Désiré Ferrand, were more or less relaxing
in their embarrassing attentions, and no longer exercised the same
constant and careful surveillance over the scene of the first tragedy.
At an early hour one morning, three or four days after Tom Bob’s
arrival in Paris, old Moche, looking just as dubious and dirty as
usual, reached his office in the Rue Saint-Fargeau, where he had not
been for several days—not that this was a matter to cause the concierge
any surprise, M. Moche being habitually a decidedly intermittent
occupier of his rooms. The old man seemed in jovial spirits. With
little, quick steps he mounted the stairs, whistling a tune; then
inserting a key in the lock, he entered his flat. But the old brigand,
a cautious man ever since his adventure with Paulet and Nini, took
good care to double lock the door again behind him. Changing his long
frock-coat for a short jacket, and planting on top of the wig that
covered his bald pate a velvet skull-cap in place of his silk-hat,
the old fellow set to work to sort out the numerous letters that had
arrived by post. To tell the truth, he did not take the trouble to
open them, for he knew by merely glancing at the address what each
contained, to wit, nothing whatever—a sheet of blank paper or a cutting
from an old newspaper. The fact is, Moche was in a better position
than anyone to know beforehand the contents of each of his letters,
inasmuch as, being desirous of putting the concierge off the scent
and impressing him by the voluminous correspondence intended for him,
the old man had the habit of every day addressing a dozen letters and
prospectuses to himself! It was a dodge to make people believe he
really followed the profession of a business agent and could boast a
numerous _clientèle_.
This time, however, in sorting his letters, Moche put one aside; this
particular one he did _not_ recognize, and discontinuing his scrutiny,
he tore open the envelope in feverish haste. It was written on good
paper—evidently from a correspondent of importance. M. Moche read:
“_Sir—I have to inform you that I have just arrived in Paris and
propose to call on Wednesday morning at your office. You obliged me
some time ago by a loan of money; I now intend to discharge the debt. I
am therefore coming to repay you ..._”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Père Moche, “a pleasant surprise to come! for once a
debtor writes to say he is going to pay up without any need to twist
his tail. Well, the exception proves the rule; all the same I rather
doubt what it all means.”
Then he jumped to the fourth page and examined the signature.
“By the Lord,” he exclaimed, “it’s my young friend Ascott ... Ascott,
that feeble-minded Englishman I have heard nothing of for a very long
time—though I never felt any anxiety about the man. Egad! I knew very
well he’d been in Paris the last eight and forty hours! is there
anything that happens Père Moche _doesn’t_ know? Let’s see what else
the young gentleman has to say?... He wants to settle up with me, a
very laudable intention, coming from a very honest man. Now how much
does the chap owe me?”
Leaving the letter on his desk, the old man trotted over to his safe,
opened it, and hauling out a ledger began turning over the leaves
eagerly.
“_Ascott_, here we are! yes, eighteen months ago I lent him 15,000
francs; unless my calculations are all wrong, at the rate of interest
agreed upon, he ought to pay me back to-day 22,000. Ah ha! not a bad
bit of business! If only a man could have windfalls like that every
day, he would be a millionaire in double quick time!”
So saying, M. Moche locked up the book again in the strong-box, and
came back to his desk, rubbing his hands.
“I’ve only read the first few lines of his letter,” he said to himself,
“and there’s four pages of the stuff. Can it by any chance be that
Ascott at the end of his epistle has modified the good intentions
expressed at the beginning?”
Moche took up the letter again and skimmed through it eagerly. “No,”
he said, his face brightening, “no, he really means to pay me back.”
But a look of chagrin suddenly darkened his ugly face.
“Why, this is vexing,” he muttered; “now he doesn’t need me any more,
he scorns me, he wishes us to break off all relations, he intends never
to see me again. Oh, ho! none of that, my fine fellow! Just when the
goose is fatted, I’m to part with it, eh? No fear, I’m not such a fool!
It’s up to you, my good Monsieur Moche, to arrange things so as to
creep up Mister Ascott’s sleeve from now on—and now more than ever.”
The old advocate was at this point in his lucubrations, more and
more convinced that at all hazards he must remain the rich young
Englishman’s friend, when he was startled by a loud knock at the door.
“That’s Ascott,” thought Moche, “let’s be quick and let him in.” The
old fellow darted to the entrance of his modest dwelling; rapidly
turned the key in the lock and threw the door wide open.
To his profound surprise he found the newcomer was not the elegantly
dressed gentleman he expected to see, but a little woman in a flowered
_peignoir_, her hair down her back and her feet crammed into an old
pair of sandals. It was Nini Guinon, who had come down from the floor
above to pay a neighbourly visit to Père Moche.
“Halloa!” cried the child, who, without waiting for an invitation,
had slipped into M. Moche’s office behind the barred partition,
“why, you’re a regular bird of passage! never at home, always out!
Every time I pass your door, I knock, I ring a peal, I stand there
waiting—nothing! nobody! the bird’s flown, the old fox is not in his
earth.”
Nini was both angry and excited, as she stood before the old man,
passing a feverish hand over her pale brow and ruffling her black
locks, while the other looked at her without moving a muscle or saying
a word.
“I’m in a hole,” went on the young baggage, “and I’ve got to get out
of it, Père Moche; I’m fed up with the whole business, I am! Anyway,
here’s straight talking—if you don’t go the way I want, I’ll just be
off and blow the gaff to the police mugs.”
“You’ll never do that, Nini,” the old man expostulated in cajoling
tones, “you’re much too nice a girl.”
But Nini declined to be softened by compliments: “I shall do what I
say,” she asseverated.
“But come, out with it! what’s it all about?” Moche demanded.
“What’s it all about, eh?” returned the girl, “why, it’s as clear as
mud. I’m in a tight place, and other folks are going to be there too if
things go on as they are. To begin with, I’ve had enough of living with
Paulet; he frightens me, the man frightens me! Ever since I saw him do
in the bank chap, I’m terrified all the time he’ll do my business for
me, too. He’s no spunk at all; it’s not blood he has in his veins, it’s
water; I sleep with him and I know what I’m talking about; every night
he lies and sweats; it’s fear, that’s what it is! He dreams of the
police, he dreams about the dead man, he yells out in his sleep. The
man’s all broke to pieces, he’ll come to a bad end; if ever the ’tecs
come questioning him a bit close, he’ll never have gumption enough to
put ’em off with blarney, and then, by God! we’ll all be in the soup!”
“Alas! my dear child,” murmured the old fellow hypocritically, “what
do you want me to do; all that business has nothing to do with me. You
have killed a man, the stolen money has disappeared, you understand,
disappeared, nobody can say where it is. Now suppose they accused me,
the thing wouldn’t hold water for a moment; for why? because I’m well
known as an honest, respectable business man. So get out of your own
difficulties!”
As a matter of fact Nini had from the first understood perfectly well
what attitude old Moche would adopt under the circumstances. Not a
doubt of it, if things turned out badly, the old business agent was
clever enough to pull his iron safely out of the fire, and certainly
cynical enough to leave his confederates in the lurch. But Nini had
no notion of things going like that; she strode up to M. Moche, and
shaking her little fist in the old man’s wrinkled face:
“As sure as my name’s Nini,” she swore, “if ever we get run in for this
job, I give you my oath, Père Moche, you’ll leave every feather of your
dirty plumage behind; but if we come to an agreement ...”
“If we come to an agreement ...” the advocate repeated the phrase with
newly-aroused interest.
“Well, then,” Nini went on, assuming the soft, coaxing, wheedling
voice every woman can use on occasion, “if we come to some agreement
in case of trouble arising, we shall be two, you and I, to say we have
nothing whatever to do with the affair of the bank messenger, and that
it was Paulet who did the trick all by himself, and got all there was
to be got out of it ... There!”
The offer of partnership thus formulated by the young slut was just the
sort of thing to appeal to the old usurer. Nodding his head approvingly:
“Your notion’s really not such a bad one, my little girl,” he said;
“only, what’s to become of you?”
Nini, encouraged by the way the interview was shaping, had dropped
nonchalantly into the one and only armchair the room contained.
Now, with eyes fixed on the ceiling, the girl sat in a day-dream, a
prophetic dream.
“I have a sort of a notion,” she murmured, “that with all these new
complications, Paulet is going to get cotched. First, there’s that
journalist Fandor drawing attention to the house; then they find the
button off the poor devil’s uniform in your garret; Fandor disappears;
on the other hand Tom Bob arrives. What does the fellow count for? I
don’t know, but I have my doubts; he must be pretty smart, he nabbed
‘Beauty Boy’ in less time than it takes to tell the story! So then, it
all comes to this—little Nini’s had enough, thank you, she’s got to
bolt, and that at sixty miles an hour, and Papa Moche, who’s no fool
neither, has got to find her a place, for choice with the nobs, to save
her from any future worries. Does that suit your book, Père Moche? Is
that settled, eh?... You’ll clearly understand this, I didn’t leave the
bosom of my family to go and rot on Devil’s Island or be eaten up by
the mosquitoes at New Caledonia.”
Père Moche was prodigiously diverted by this announcement of her
principles of action on the part of Paulet’s girl mistress. Undoubtedly
there was something to be made of this little minx with the wide-awake
look and bright eyes, so vicious and so astute. He was about to reply,
when suddenly a peal on the door bell was heard.
“Who’s that coming?” Nini asked anxiously, as she instinctively laid a
hand on her bosom to restrain the excited beating of her heart.
But Moche reassured her: “It’s nine o’clock,” he said. “No doubt it’s
a client who has an appointment. Hide yourself; I’m going to take
him into the salon; then you’ll cut your stick while I’m receiving
him.” Moche was right; on opening the door he found himself face to
face with the young Englishman, Mr. Ascott, whose abusive letter he
had been reading half an hour before. Moche with the supple servility
that belonged to his mean, cautious nature, was lavish in bowings and
scrapings, bending to the ground before the wealthy foreigner, while
the latter, with an icy dignity, barely acknowledged his creditor’s
courtesies with a curt nod:
“If milord will condescend to step into my reception room?...”
suggested M. Moche ...
Ascott obeyed mechanically, but disclaimed the rank his host had given
him.
“I am not Lord Ascott, Monsieur Moche; I am plain Mr. Ascott; the title
of lord belongs to my honoured father.”
“Ho, ho!” suggested the old man with a tactless grin, “a father—a
father may die one fine day, and if I’m not mistaken, the sons inherit
both the money and all the privileges and prerogatives.”
The young man shrugged his shoulders:
“I forbid you to speak of my honoured father, sir; and besides that,
you must know that in no case shall I bear the title; I am a younger
son of the family, my older brother will be My Lord.”
But Moche was incorrigible and went on to insinuate:
“The elder brother no doubt ... but suppose he should happen to die,
too.”
Ascott stamped his foot angrily and cast a furious look at the old
money-lender.
“That is enough, sir,” he declared in an indignant voice quivering with
restrained anger, “that is enough! let us settle up our accounts; that
done, we will break off all relations.”
But Moche was for slipping away: “Forgive me, dear sir, noble
gentleman, honourable signor, if I trouble you to wait a few moments,
but there is a lady in my office, a very important client; I must
conclude my business with her. By your leave ...” Moche, with another
low bow, awaited the reply. “Get done, and be quick about it!” was the
rough answer.
The old brigand went back immediately to the office, where Nini was
still waiting; she had never budged. Moche approached her with an air
of triumph, calling softly:
“Come here, little girl!” and on her obeying, drew her to the window,
setting her with her face to the full light. With his coarse, hairy
hands the old usurer lifted the child’s touzled locks, parted them on
her forehead and imprisoned the tangled curls in his palm. Nini let him
do as he liked, puzzled and uncomprehending.
“D’you know,” declared the old man, “d’you know, with your hair down
like a little girlie, you look ever so young.”
“But,” protested Nini, “I’m not old; I’m barely sixteen and a half.”
“I daresay,” resumed the other, “and when you don’t put on your naughty
look and haven’t been drinking, you might verily be taken for a little
saint. Now let’s see your hands.”
Again Nini did as she was bid, and Moche spreading out the fingers on
his fore-arm, examined the nails. “Quite good, again,” he announced,
“carefully enough kept for a poor man’s child, and not too well kept
neither, to make them think it’s a ‘gay woman’s’ hand.”
Next moment, taking the girl by the shoulders, he gazed fixedly into
her face with the air of one inspired.
“Nini,” he cried, “I have a brilliant idea, and if only you’re not too
clumsy, we’re going, you and I, to do something mighty smart. Nini,
next door there I’ve got a ripe pear, it’s up to you to pluck it; only,
listen to me, I give you ten minutes to rig yourself out—not, mind you,
like a street wench, but like an innocent little maid; leave your hair
down, don’t wear a hat, put on your plainest frock, drop your eyes,
look sweet and modest, and think of what you were a year ago, a good
little virtuous girl, living with her mother and just done learning up
her catechism. Presently, that is to say directly you’re ready, come
and pay me a visit.... I’m good for the rest!”
Nini did not need telling twice: “I’m fly,” she declared, slapping the
old fellow shrewdly on the back. Then, lightly and airily, she darted
off.
“She’s a jewel!” thought Père Moche, as he noted the tricksy grace of
the young harlot, “with a bit of training, and if she’ll but listen to
me, I’ll make something of the girl!”
But this was no time for day-dreams.
Reassuming an air of gravity and importance, Moche went in search of
his client, whom he invited to return with him to the office.
Such was the geniality displayed by the old usurer that the phlegmatic
Englishman, who had come to see him with the clear and definite
intention of exchanging simply and solely the words absolutely
necessary to effect the repayment he wished to make, allowed himself
little by little to be drawn into conversation.
“Moche,” declared Ascott, “here are your twenty-five notes of a
thousand francs; you will give me a receipt.”
“Why certainly, most noble sir, with the greatest pleasure.”
But the old scamp feigned forgetfulness: “You owed me twenty-five
thousand francs you say; _was_ that the sum?” he asked innocently.
“Twenty-five thousand, yes,” Ascott repeated.
In reality it was three thousand less, but the old thief took good
care not to recall the fact! Wishing to complete the formalities
with a certain solemnity, he went over to his strong-box—there was
actually next to nothing in it—and drew out the one and only article it
contained, the big ledger to wit. After turning over a number of blank
leaves, he opened at the page showing Ascott’s name. For a long time
the business man hung over the columns of figures as if making a series
of complicated calculations. At last he looked up:
“My excellent client,” he said gravely, “you will excuse my
contradicting you, but it is not twenty-five thousand francs you owe
me, it is merely twenty-four thousand, five hundred; I am nothing if
not honest; I wouldn’t wrong you by one single centime.”
The effect of this declaration was to make the young Englishman laugh:
“Egad! Monsieur Moche,” he declared, “they’ve changed you surely, the
thing’s impossible!”
But the usurer put on his grandest air: “My dear sir, strict probity in
business is my maxim! I assure you it pays, the future is to the men of
honour, and it’s just because I am conscientious that I benefit by the
fidelity of my clients. You yourself, Monsieur Ascott, will certainly
require my services again some day, and you may rely on always finding
me devoted to your interests.”
“That,” Ascott broke in drily, “I cannot promise; I don’t care, I tell
you frankly, to have relations with men of your stamp. In the last
eighteen months I’ve been travelling up and down the world, I have
changed very much, I have money now; I am going to make a home in
Paris, where I propose to live as a good citizen, spending no more than
my income.”
“I’ve been told,” M. Moche interrupted, “that you have just bought a
delightful little house in the Rue Fortuny.”
“How came you to know that?” demanded Ascott, not denying the fact.
“Pooh!” said Moche, “in the great world of business and finance to
which I belong, we know pretty well everything that happens.”
“Really?” said Ascott incredulously, amazed to think that so
insignificant a person as Moche, a moneylender of a low type, could be
in any way connected with the big and highly respected bankers of the
Place de Paris through whom he had negotiated the purchase of the house
in the Rue Fortuny. But Moche was well posted without a doubt. By a
fresh question he more than ever surprised the rich Englishman; he now
suggested, speaking out without any reticence or beating about the bush:
“Doubtless it’s to build a pretty nest for a grand mistress you’ve
bought that exquisite house; I _have_ heard say that a certain Monsieur
Ascott, here present, is head over ears in love with a certain Russian
princess named Sonia Danidoff, with whom he crossed the Atlantic on
board the _Lorraine_.”
Ascott sprang up in extreme agitation.
“Moche,” he cried, “you think you are a wonderful man who knows
everything, but you are behind the fair, my friend, this time; yes, I
admit, I _was_ deeply in love with the Princess Danidoff, and I confess
I was in hopes that in France, after the persevering court I paid her,
she would at last consent to grant me her favours—but events have
decided otherwise.”
“Poor Monsieur Ascott!” murmured M. Moche. Then he added, casting a
side glance at his companion to judge of the effect of his words:
“To think that fool princess prefers a common detective to you!”
Ascott literally flew at the old villain’s throat, and shaking him by
the shoulder,
“So then,” he vociferated, “so then, you know everything?”
Moche smiled quietly:
“No, not everything,” he protested, “but some little matters!... I take
it the Princess Danidoff has no more brains than a sparrow, she must be
out of her wits to like this low-class police spy better than you ...”
But Moche suddenly stopped dead: “I beg your pardon, but there’s
someone knocking,” he exclaimed, and went to open the door, pretending
to be greatly surprised.
Throwing out his arms and speaking loud enough for Ascott to hear him,
he greeted the visitor warmly:
“Oh, ho! little Nini, it’s you, is it? what a stroke of luck! How is my
dear sister, your good mother? d’you bring me good news?”
Like a finished actress, Nini stood up on tiptoe, threw her arms
round the old scamp’s neck and kissed him on the brow tenderly, but
respectfully. Paulet’s mistress had perfectly well understood Père
Moche’s instructions. With her modest, decent get-up, she had all the
appearance, all the charm of youth, freshness and purity, of an honest
little Paris workgirl, one of those pretty flowers that bloom in many a
happy home of good, respectable, industrious working people. The girl
was entirely charming with her virginal air of innocence and chastity.
Père Moche was all smiles as he looked at her; such was the old scamp’s
artfulness in disguising his true feelings that as he stood beside the
young girl he offered the very picture of a kind, good uncle, proud and
happy in the beauty of his little niece! The man seemed to forget his
sordid trade amid these tokens of family affection. Like a father proud
of his child, he turned to Ascott, who had been the interested witness
of this intimate and touching little scene.
“Allow me, my dear sir,” he said, “to introduce my young niece Eugénie
Guinon, a good little workgirl, who makes at this present time her
three francs a day. She’s barely sixteen, but a tall girl, don’t you
think for her age?”
Ascott bowed to the young girl, muttering to himself: “She’s charming,
charming!” But Moche, seeming not to hear the remark, went on,
addressing himself to Nini:
“Come, don’t be frightened, show you know your manners, say good-day to
the gentleman, offer him your hand!”
Nini dropped her eyes, shyly extended her arm, let Ascott imprison
her little hand in his nervous fingers, which held it a moment or
two—perhaps longer than was quite necessary.
But old Moche was anxious, as a good uncle should be, not to make his
niece waste her time.
“My dear child,” he declared, smacking a big kiss on her blushing
cheek, “I’m so pleased to have seen you, but you must run away now, for
I suppose you’ve work to do, eh?”
“Yes,” replied Nini in a little soft, childish voice, “I must be let
off to deliver a bodice for the lady on the third floor, and then
I’m to match some things at the shops near the Bourse. But I came to
ask you, dear uncle, to come to dinner with us this evening; mamma
will be so pleased.” Moche never moved a muscle as he listened to the
little speech Nini Guinon reeled off, looking her straight in the
eyes and preserving an imperturbable gravity. The old brigand was
lost in wonder; ah! how well the child played her part, so cutely, so
cleverly—with her way of never looking at Ascott, but all the same
contriving to attract the Englishman’s admiration. Most certainly he
would make something of little Nini, never fear!
The bogus uncle and the pseudo-niece took leave of each other prettily.
Nini dropped a curtsy as she withdrew, while Ascott, with shining eyes,
bowed to the ground before her.
Hardly had the charming vision disappeared ere Ascott, hitherto so
frigid and impassive in demeanor, showed a complete change of attitude,
marching up and down M. Moche’s office in the throes of a feverish
excitement. But the old scamp pretended not to notice anything, busily
occupied it seemed in sorting his papers. Suddenly he started round;
the Englishman was addressing him. “Monsieur Moche, Monsieur Moche!” he
called. Then in hesitating accents Ascott went on:
“Monsieur Moche, you have a niece, sir ... and a devilish pretty girl
she is!”
“Well, yes,” the old brigand observed, feigning not to understand the
young man’s drift, “it’s true she has fine eyes, but she’s quite a
child yet ... the ‘awkward age,’ you know ... later on, I don’t say,
when she’s developed a bit; then her good mother and I will find the
girl a good husband.”
“Moche,” broke in Ascott, “I want to know your niece.”
“But,” returned the villain, still with the same affectation of
_naïveté_, “you do know her, didn’t I introduce you?”
“You are a trifle obtuse, Monsieur Moche, or else a bit _too_ clever;
it’s not in that sense I wish to know her, not I. Your niece is to my
taste; at the present moment I have no mistress ...”
The old “advocate” sprang back, feigning the most extravagant
indignation:
“Oh, sir, sir,” he cried, “my dear sir, no, upon my word, I could never
have believed that of you; do you dare to come to _me_ to make such a
proposal? Certainly I’m not a rich man, and little Nini’s sole and only
capital is her virtue and her beauty—it is something, it is a great
deal even—but by the Lord God, I give you my oath, I will never, never
agree to such a bargain. What do you take me for?”
But Ascott still persisted:
“I take you, Monsieur Moche, for a man of common-sense ... come now, I
or another, what harm can it do you?... while, seeing it is I——”
“But, my dear sir, my dear client,” stammered Moche, who was acting to
perfection despair, embarrassment and perplexity, “but, sir, not you
any more than another; my little niece is still a child, and then, she
is an honest girl and a good and a virtuous; I wouldn’t for anything in
all the world ... Besides, just think of it—I, her uncle!”
Ascott interrupted the indignant speaker:
“Come, now, how much?”
M. Moche seemed overwhelmed by the insult; he sank into his armchair
and took his head between his hands, vociferating in heartbroken tones
and a voice choked with sobs:
“Why, what sin have I committed that God lets me be treated in
this fashion! I am only a poor advocate, and my niece just a humble
workgirl, but we are both of us—I should say, all three of us, for I
mustn’t forget her sainted mother—we are all honest folk, worthy of the
highest respect ... and we’re expected to ... God in heaven ... we’re
expected to ...”
Moche left his sentence unfinished, broke off his peroration in mid
career, for it had become entirely unnecessary. Peeping through his
parted fingers, the old rascal had not missed a single one of Ascott’s
movements. Now the latter, leaving the old man to finish out his litany
of lamentations by himself, had suddenly quitted the room, banging the
door behind him. This was just what Moche was hoping for; he calculated
that the Englishman, seeing nothing could be made of the uncle, was
going to try and catch up the niece before she had left the house.
Treading softly, he crept to the door giving on the landing outside,
the same Ascott had shut a moment or two before, and set it ajar. There
he stood listening, his face beaming, and rubbing his hands.
Ascott, who had caught sight of Nini Guinon on the floor below as he
was going downstairs, was leaning over the bannister and calling in a
voice shaking with excitement:
“Mademoiselle! pst! Mademoiselle, I say! Mademoiselle Eugénie! Listen!”
Then it was Nini’s clear, flute-like voice, pitched in a tone of
perfect innocence, that answered:
“Who’s calling me? Is it you, dear uncle?”
Ascott, lowering his voice, and now flying three steps at a time down
the stairs to join the girl below, went on:
“Why, no, mademoiselle, so to speak, it’s not just exactly your uncle,
but it’s I, his friend, the gentleman who was in his office just now.
Listen, I’ve something to tell you; will you let me walk with you?”
Then the two voices mingled in an indistinct murmur, and the pair could
be heard leaving the house.
Moche went back into his rooms with every sign of profound
satisfaction, skipping about clumsily like a dancing bear in a merry
mood.
“Taken! the bait’s taken fine!” he chuckled, “not a doubt of it, here’s
another stroke of genius to good old Père Moche’s credit!”