But Moche ordered him to hold his tongue. It needed all his strength to keep the apache down. Paulet, savage and desperate, had managed with his right hand to grasp the barrel of the revolver, and was holding it away from his body; it looked as if he might renew the struggle, perhaps floor the old man in his turn. The two wretches fought furiously for some seconds, now one, now the other momentarily getting the upper hand; the two rolled over and over in the dust. At last Moche succeeded in gripping the young apache’s throat between his powerful fingers, after forcing him to let go the revolver. “Die, then,” yelled Moche, “die, as you won’t give in!” “Oh! oh!” stammered Paulet in a broken voice, “Curse it, curse my luck! will no one save me?” Suddenly the two combatants were dragged apart. In answer to Paulet’s cry for help, someone shouted in a ringing voice: “I will.” The someone had picked up the revolver that had been dropped in the struggle and stood with it in his hand. Dazed and dumbfounded, Paulet gazed open-mouthed at his preserver, whom he did not know. Père Moche, for his part, saw that the person who had just intervened between them in the battle was no other than the servant at the restaurant who had waited at breakfast. Moche stared at the man, scrutinizing his face with concentrated attention; suddenly he broke into a cry: “Fandor, in heaven’s name!” he exclaimed, “you blackguard, I didn’t recognize you before....” At the name of Fandor, Paulet sprang up and ranged himself instinctively by the journalist’s side; while Père Moche realized the time was not come to continue the discussion. Besides which, the landlord of _The Orange Blossom_ now came running up from the penetralia of his establishment with very natural curiosity: “What is up now?” he demanded, “I seem to have heard an explosion, like a revolver shot.” Mine host looked hard at the three men, standing there with torn clothes, all filthy and smothered in dust; but Fandor was ready with a plausible explanation. He gave his account with perfect self-possession: “It’s nothing, landlord, only the customer’s car burst a tyre just now and we’ve been helping to mend it; it was a case of creeping in under the chassis, that’s how we’re a bit dirty, but a clothes brush’ll soon put that to rights!” The landlord asked no more questions, and the four men returned quietly to the restaurant, but three of them were well aware that this tranquillity was only apparent. It was but a truce before the battle, for war seemed henceforth to be definitely declared. CHAPTER XXIV PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS It was nine o’clock, and the storm was at its height. The rain came down in torrents, the wind blew fiercely, lightning blazed and thunder bellowed. The streets were deserted, for a man must indeed have had urgent business to call him abroad on such a night.