“Impossible! How prove it? Bank notes can be made to disappear; there’s nothing more like a thousand-franc note than another thousand-franc note, while the dead body of a bank messenger, a body stretched on the floor of a lodging, fifth floor No. 125 Rue Saint-Fargeau, the residence of one Paulet by name, that’s a thing it’s not so easy to stuff away in a pocket-book ... Now, what are you proposing to do with the corpse in question, eh, my young friend?” Paulet turned ghastly pale. Since he had done the deed, and especially since he had discovered there was nothing to be gained by it, the money having vanished, the scoundrelly apache had completely lost his head. If only things had gone according to plan, the affair might well have been highly advantageous. Paulet had arranged it all with Nini—to kill the collector, to appropriate his takings and fly right away to foreign parts. It was good business, a job well worth the trouble. But, lo and behold! the unlucky and unexpected interference of old Moche upset all their plans, for the old ruffian had left in the wallet nothing but a few small notes—just enough and no more, to pay for a little spree. It was M. Moche, not a doubt of it, who had stolen the money ... Paulet was to pull the chestnuts out of the fire and the other was to reap the benefit ... Nini, in fact, had actually seen the man making off! If at that very moment the old man had not had a visitor, Paulet would have hurried down at once and had it out with him there and then. In broken phrases and a breathless voice, Paulet detailed all this to the old advocate, who only smiled enigmatically. After a pause, the latter spoke again: “You are a fine, brave fellow, Paulet—a bit of a scamp, too, but who can blame you? It’s just your little way, you know.... Now, my man, I’m going to make an offer; put your knife back in your pocket, I will clap my revolver in its case—we shall be more comfortable so for talking; let’s sit down one on either end of the table, and perhaps we can come to some arrangement.” The young brigand was at a loss, as he gazed alternately at the old lawyer with the sharp eyes and at Nini, who was prompting him in hurried, urgent tones: “Don’t be a fool, Paulet; do what the old ape says. He’s an artful, knowing beggar, certain sure he’ll find the trick to get us out of the hole we’re in....” Moche had caught what Nini said. He stepped up boldly to Paulet, with outstretched hands, though the young man had not yet pocketed his weapon: “There, you see, I trust you,” he declared. “I offer you my hand, mate, as a good comrade—shake, my man, we’ll fix up things yet.” Paulet gave in. Ten minutes later, seated at the round table in M. Moche’s dining room, the advocate and his two visitors, Paulet and Nini, were just finishing a bottle of wine together. They clinked glasses for the last time: “Well, then,” demanded Paulet, “it’s a sure thing, Moche, old man, you’re going to help me?”