It was Paulet he saw, but Paulet changed beyond recognition—eyes starting out of his head, mouth set hard, features convulsed, muscles taut. The lover of Nini Guinon, knife in hand, was for hurling himself at M. Moche, when suddenly he stopped dead. The sharp click of a cocked pistol had struck him motionless where he stood. Moche, quick as lightning, had not only dodged the villain’s furious onslaught, but had whipped a revolver from his pocket and pointed the weapon straight at the scoundrel’s breast— “Not another step,” he vociferated, “or I shoot you like a dog!” At the same moment a cry of anguish rang out. Behind Paulet appeared the face of Nini Guinon, pale and agonized; her two hands clutched her lover, whom she was holding back with all her strength. But the man had realized the risk involved in a fresh attack, and was ready to parley. The voice shook that came from between his clenched teeth: “Brigand!” he repeated, looking furiously at Moche, “brigand, give me back my money!” For a moment the old advocate entertained the idea of shamming ignorance, pretending not to know what the murderer meant by the demand. But a half-dozen words that fell from Nini’s lips decided him. “I saw you fumbling in the money-bag,” she declared, and he knew at once that dissimulation was useless. The wisest policy was to take the bull by the horns there and then—and he had his plan all ready, cut and dried. Best to play the game cards face upwards on the table. “No,” he declared, grimly, “I will not give you back the money.” “Ruffian!” “One minute...!” A sardonic smile curled the old man’s lips; he cast a searching glance at Nini, questioning with which of his adversaries he should open the attack. They were two to one—was it not judicious to win one of them over to his side so as to reverse the superiority of numbers? “Poor little Nini,” M. Moche murmured in softened, honeyed tones, “my poor little girl, you’re in a nasty hole; what ever is to become of you?” The girl looked superciliously at the old man: “I don’t understand,” she told him. “Oh, yes! you do,” returned the advocate; “nothing easier to understand, my dear child; you’ll be left all alone in life now, it is only a question of days, perhaps of hours—your lover will be arrested by the police and in six months from now guillotined at the back of the prison of La Santé. To do a man in to steal his money is always a bad business!” Beside himself with rage, Paulet screamed: “But it was _you_ who stole the money, _you_ will be turned off, too.” But Moche, in the same quiet voice, yet all the while keeping his revolver levelled at the scoundrel’s breast, retorted: