In using the word "wife" Fandor was under no illusion; he merely wanted to interview the other. "My wife? Ah, sir, that's the terrible part of it. She's not my wife--she's a little friend, and now it's all bound to come out. My lawful wife will hear everything. As for the girl, I don't know what has become of her." "She knew that you were carrying money?" "Yes, sir. I am an agent for wines at Bercy, and I was going to pay over dividends to stock-holders, one hundred and fifty thousand francs. I recognised one of my men among the robbers, a cooper. He knew that every month I travel, carrying large sums of money. I am quite sure this robbery was planned beforehand." "And who are you, sir?" "M. Martialle, of Kessler & Barriès. Fortunately the money is not lost." "Not lost! You know where to find the robbers?" "That I do not, but they have only the halves of the notes. These are worth nothing to them unless they can lay their hands on the corresponding halves. It's a way of cheap insurance." "And where are the other halves of the notes?" "Oh, in a safe place, in the office of the firm at Bercy." Fandor abruptly left M. Martialle and approached an official. "When will the line be cleared?" "In an hour's time, sire." "There'll be no train for Paris till then?" "No, sir." Fandor moved off along the track. "That's all right, I can make it. I'll have time to send a wire to _The Capital_." The journalist sat down on the grass, took out his writing-pad and began his article. But he had overrated his strength. He was worn out, body and soul. He had not been writing ten minutes when he dropped into a doze, the pencil slipped from his fingers and he was fast asleep. * * * * * When Fandor opened his eyes, the twilight was beginning to come down. It was between five and six o'clock. "What a fool I've been! I've made a mess of the whole business now," he cried as he ran frantically to the nearest station. "How soon the first train to Paris?" "In two minutes, sir: it is signalled." "When does it arrive?" "At ten o'clock." Fandor threw up his hands. "I shall be too late. I haven't time to wire Juve and warn him. Oh! what an idiot I was to sleep like that!" XVI A DRAMA AT THE BERCY WAREHOUSE Juve passed the whole day at the Cité Frochot. Despite the precautions taken to keep the failure two days back a secret, the papers had got wind of the drama: _The Capital_ itself had spoken of it, though without naming his fellow-worker. The staff of that paper was unaware that Fandor was the other man who had so marvellously escaped from the sewer. Blood-curdling tales were told about Doctor Chaleck, Juve, Loupart, the house of the crime, the affair at the hospital; but to anyone familiar with the actual happenings, the newspaper accounts were very far from giving the truth. And Juve, far from contradicting these misstatements, took a delight in spreading them broadcast.