A sound of footsteps. A cold sweat broke out on Fandor’s temples; like all truly brave men, he was not rash and deemed it foolish to risk his life without gain for anybody or anything whatsoever. Now it was very certain that, if he was seen by Moche, who knew him, and now treated him openly as an enemy, he would be denounced to the apaches, who would no longer take him to be one of their own crew and would dub him a traitor. A summary execution would be the sequel. But what would become of Juve then? Anyway, what was to be done now under these difficult circumstances? The intrepid journalist asked himself the question anxiously, calling up all his ingenuity and cunning to discover an immediate answer, for it was not hours now that counted, but seconds. The footsteps came nearer. They were within a hundred yards and the new arrivals would soon be able to pierce the heavy shadows that, luckily for Fandor, still hung, a protective screen, between them and the reporter. A happy thought! a really brilliant idea! Those great buckets (empty or full, what matter?) that swung in the wind along the dredger’s spar, were they not observatories all ready made, so excellently adapted to the purpose that assuredly it would never occur to the most suspiciously minded of the gang that a spy, however rash, should have chosen so perilous a hiding place. Fandor did not lose a moment. Rapidly and dexterously the young man hauled himself up by the chain and had very soon reached the highest point of the spar, where he settled himself, crouching down in the topmost bucket of all. By great good luck it was empty. From there he could both see and hear, while remaining entirely incognito himself. He was only just in time. The apaches were arriving one after the other in quick succession. “Big Ernestine” was the first; behind her came Paulet, the murderer of the bank messenger, the “Gasman,” “Bull’s-eye,” the “Beadle,” and other members of the gang, after them, five or six new recruits, whom Fandor only knew by sight, and who had as yet done little to get themselves talked about. These were whispering together under their breath. The rest seemed quite at home, they believed themselves as much alone as in their regular haunts, and their voices swelled to the loudest diapason of indignation. “Eleven gone, and the dirty scamp’s not come! it’s over long the thief’s been chousing us all with his promises he never keeps. Won’t stand the cheat any more, what say you, mates?” “If old man Moche tries on another of his tricks to-night, I’ll do him in to-morrow!” “Hark there! what’s that?” “It’s the old humbug here at last! oh, ho! his pockets are bulging with brass; that’s why he’s been so slow; it’s over heavy for him, he can’t walk!”—and the yells and imprecations broke out afresh.