During the few seconds M. Moche stood hesitating before the ghastly sight, he could still hear the two accomplices minutely discussing the details of their cleansing operations. But there was something else that, even more than his curiosity to overhear what they were saying, held the old advocate’s attention—to wit, the bank notes that overflowed the wallet, that were all but out of their receptacle, that seemed to be actually offering themselves to whosoever cared to appropriate them. It was a strong temptation—and M. Moche did not resist it! Creeping like a cat, hiding in the semi-darkness of the little passage, with a thousand precautions, he advanced step by step; he reached out his hairy hand, his fingers shook as they touched the brass fittings of the open wallet; then his hand fell on the bundle of notes. Suddenly he sprang back in alarm—Paulet and Nini had stopped talking. Had they heard him? But presently the same excited conversation began again. Whereupon M. Moche, with an ugly smile on his face, crept down again to his own floor, bolted his door and counted his spoils. Yes, it was a fine stroke of business; not only did he recover his own ten thousand-franc notes, but with them were ten others of the same denomination! “Ha, ha! Money well invested and that brings in cent. per cent. on the nail, or I don’t know what I’m talking about!” M. Moche muttered in delight, his eyes sparkling with greed. But next moment, the old man turned ghastly pale. The front-door bell had rung! Instinctively, M. Moche crammed into his pocket the notes he had just stolen so audaciously, and with the aplomb of a hardened thief. Then he stood stock still, waiting. Would the visitor insist? Yes, he would; the ring was repeated. M. Moche had nothing to fear, for the moment at any rate; had he not taken the precaution to double lock the door? Still, he must find out what was afoot. In one second the old fellow had plotted the whole plan of the line of behaviour he must adopt. “Bless my soul,” he thought to himself, “it can only be a caller, a client, and there is no reason why I shouldn’t receive him; if by any chance it were Paulet, I need only refuse to open and leave him to kick his heels till the police arrive.” At the third repetition of the summons, M. Moche put the tentative question: “Who is it? What do you want?” Through the door the old advocate caught the sound of a fresh young voice asking timidly: “Is this M. Moche’s?” “Yes, madame ... mademoiselle; but I don’t know if he can be seen. What is it about?” “A lady wishes to speak to him—about a flat to let in the Rue de l’Evangile.” _Rue de l’Evangile_, that was where M. Moche owned a property. Most certainly it would never do to send away this inquirer who appeared anxious to take rooms in his house.