M. Moche was in a generous mood that morning. He now beckoned to the waiter of the drinking shop where he sat with a companion, the apache known by the nickname of the “Gasman,” and ordered a bottle of wine and glasses to be set on the table. But the old man had certainly not summoned this “Gasman” to meet him merely for the pleasure of standing the young ruffian a drink. For a good quarter of an hour they had been hobnobbing together, and the old business agent had been engaged in explaining to his man the particular service he required of him. To start with, indeed, and by way of preliminary to insure the confidence and good will of his ally, Père Moche, as he shook hands on saying good-morning, had slipped between the “Gasman’s” gnarled fingers a nice little bank note for fifty francs, which the apache, nothing if not practical, had instantly pocketed, prepared to learn later on what he would have to do in return, or even to refuse to take on the job if he did not fancy it. When the bottle was half empty, Moche came back to the business in hand. “Then it’s settled,” he asked, “we may count on you?” The apache pushed his chair back, leant his great body far across the table, rested his head between the palms of his hands and looking hard at the old business man: “That depends,” he announced in a decided tone. “What d’ye mean?” asked Moche in surprise. The “Gasman” repeated: “That depends. Question is who’re we working for? For my part, since all these here to-dos, you’ll understand, I’m beginning to be a bit off. Fantômas’ gang and me being in the know with ’em, that’s all very fine and large; but sure as I’m here drinking at your expense, the thing can’t go on, and it’s bound to end badly.” “Don’t you worry about that, my man; this business is my little game and nobody else’s. Fantômas has nothing to do with it. And what’s more, let me tell you, Fantômas don’t like folks prying into his business, whoever they may be; cute chap as you are, Mr. ‘Gasman,’ you’ll be getting yourself into trouble, if you poke your nose in there.” “Right oh!” agreed the apache; “let’s talk about _your_ business then instead!” “Well then,” resumed Père Moche, “you quite understand I count on you implicitly for to-night. Now there must be two of you for the job, so stir your stumps this afternoon and find a bully boy at a loose end. Who are you going to take, eh?” The apache thought a moment, twisting his long moustache, then suggested: “I don’t see anyone hardly but ‘Bull’s-eye,’ you know who I mean, who’d just do ...” Moche approved the selection: “That’s the ticket, go and fix it up with your friend; he’s a good cuss and no white liver,” he grinned. But Moche grew grave again: “Don’t forget to bring along all the properties—some good strong rope, and of course a handkerchief, you know, to make a gag—part of your stock in trade all that, eh, ‘Gasman’?”