"Old Siméon," said Patrice to himself, "was acquainted with their habits. He must have known that they were accustomed to meet at this café on a certain day of the week, at a fixed hour, and he suddenly remembered it all at the sight of Bournef's name." A few minutes later M. Masseron alighted from his car with his men. The business did not take long. The open front of the café was surrounded. The accomplices offered no resistance. M. Masseron sent three of them under a strong guard to the Dépôt and hustled Bournef into a private room. "Come along," he said to Patrice. "We'll question him." "Mme. Essarès is alone at the house," Patrice objected. "Alone? No. There are all your soldier-men." "Yes, but I would rather go back, if you don't mind. It's the first time that I've left her and I'm justified in feeling anxious." "It's only a matter of a few minutes," M. Masseron insisted. "One should always take advantage of the fluster caused by the arrest." Patrice followed him, but they soon saw that Bournef was not one of those men who are easily put out. He simply shrugged his shoulders at their threats: "It is no use, sir," he said, "to try and frighten me. I risk nothing. Shot, do you say? Nonsense! You don't shoot people in France for the least thing; and we are all four subjects of a neutral country. Tried? Sentenced? Imprisoned? Never! You forget that you have kept everything dark so far; and, when you hushed up the murder of Mustapha, of Fakhi and of Essarès, it was not done with the object of reviving the case for no valid reason. No, sir, I am quite easy. The internment-camp is the worst that can await me." "Then you refuse to answer?" said M. Masseron. "Not a bit of it! I accept internment. But there are twenty different ways of treating a man in these camps, and I should like to earn your favor and, in so doing, make sure of reasonable comfort till the end of the war. But first of all, what do you know?" "Pretty well everything." "That's a pity: it decreases my value. Do you know about Essarès' last night?" "Yes, with the bargain of the four millions. What's become of the money?" Bournef made a furious gesture: "Taken from us! Stolen! It was a trap!" "Who took it?" "One Grégoire." "Who was he?" "His familiar, as we have since learnt. We discovered that this Grégoire was no other than a fellow who used to serve as his chauffeur on occasion." "And who therefore helped him to convey the bags of gold from the bank to his house." "Yes. And we also think, we know . . . Look here, you may as well call it a certainty. Grégoire . . . is a woman." "A woman!" "Exactly. His mistress. We have several proofs of it. But she's a trustworthy, capable woman, strong as a man and afraid of nothing." "Do you know her address?" "No." "As to the gold: have you no clue to its whereabouts, no suspicion?"