"You're talking nonsense. For the money to belong to you, it must first be in your possession." "Certainly." "And is it?" "It is." "Explain yourself, explain yourself at once!" snarled Siméon, beside himself with anger and alarm. "I will explain myself. The hiding-place that couldn't be got at consisted of four old books, back numbers of Bottin's directory for Paris and the provinces, each in two volumes. The four volumes were hollow inside, as though they had been scooped out; and there was a million francs in each of them." "You lie! You lie!" "They were on a shelf, in a little lumber-room next the cabin." "Well, what then?" "What then? They're here." "Here?" "Yes, here, on that bookshelf, in front of your nose. So, in the circumstances, you see, as I am already the lawful owner, I can't accept . . ." "You thief! You thief!" shouted Siméon, shaking with rage and clenching his fist. "You're nothing but a thief; and I'll make you disgorge. Oh, you dirty thief!" Dr. Géradec smiled very calmly and raised his hand in protest: "This is strong language and quite unjustified! quite unjustified! Let me remind you that Mme. Mosgranem honored me with her affection. One day, or rather one morning, after a moment of expansiveness, 'My dear friend,' she said--she used to call me her dear friend--'my dear friend, when I die'--she was given to those gloomy forebodings--'when I die, I bequeath to you the contents of my home!' Her home, at that moment, was the barge. Do you suggest that I should insult her memory by refusing to obey so sacred a wish?" Old Siméon was not listening. An infernal thought was awakening in him; and he turned to the doctor with a movement of affrighted attention. "We are wasting precious time, my dear sir," said the doctor. "What have you decided to do?" He was playing with the sheet of paper on which he had written the particulars required for the passport. Siméon came up to him without a word. At last the old man whispered: "Give me that sheet of paper. . . . I want to see . . ." He took the paper out of the doctor's hand, ran his eyes down it and suddenly leapt backwards: "What name have you put? What name have you put? What right have you to give me that name? Why did you do it?" "You told me to put any name I pleased, you know." "But why this one? Why this one?" "Can it be your own?" The old man started with terror and, bending lower and lower over the doctor, said, in a trembling voice: "One man alone, one man alone was capable of guessing . . ." There was a long pause. Then the doctor gave a little chuckle: "I know that only one man was capable of it. So let's take it that I'm the man." "One man alone," continued the other, while his breath once again seemed to fail him, "one man alone could find the hiding-place of the four millions in a few seconds." The doctor did not answer. He smiled; and his features gradually relaxed. In a sort of terror-stricken tone Siméon hissed out: