“I daresay,” resumed the other, “and when you don’t put on your naughty look and haven’t been drinking, you might verily be taken for a little saint. Now let’s see your hands.” Again Nini did as she was bid, and Moche spreading out the fingers on his fore-arm, examined the nails. “Quite good, again,” he announced, “carefully enough kept for a poor man’s child, and not too well kept neither, to make them think it’s a ‘gay woman’s’ hand.” Next moment, taking the girl by the shoulders, he gazed fixedly into her face with the air of one inspired. “Nini,” he cried, “I have a brilliant idea, and if only you’re not too clumsy, we’re going, you and I, to do something mighty smart. Nini, next door there I’ve got a ripe pear, it’s up to you to pluck it; only, listen to me, I give you ten minutes to rig yourself out—not, mind you, like a street wench, but like an innocent little maid; leave your hair down, don’t wear a hat, put on your plainest frock, drop your eyes, look sweet and modest, and think of what you were a year ago, a good little virtuous girl, living with her mother and just done learning up her catechism. Presently, that is to say directly you’re ready, come and pay me a visit.... I’m good for the rest!” Nini did not need telling twice: “I’m fly,” she declared, slapping the old fellow shrewdly on the back. Then, lightly and airily, she darted off. “She’s a jewel!” thought Père Moche, as he noted the tricksy grace of the young harlot, “with a bit of training, and if she’ll but listen to me, I’ll make something of the girl!” But this was no time for day-dreams. Reassuming an air of gravity and importance, Moche went in search of his client, whom he invited to return with him to the office. Such was the geniality displayed by the old usurer that the phlegmatic Englishman, who had come to see him with the clear and definite intention of exchanging simply and solely the words absolutely necessary to effect the repayment he wished to make, allowed himself little by little to be drawn into conversation. “Moche,” declared Ascott, “here are your twenty-five notes of a thousand francs; you will give me a receipt.” “Why certainly, most noble sir, with the greatest pleasure.” But the old scamp feigned forgetfulness: “You owed me twenty-five thousand francs you say; _was_ that the sum?” he asked innocently. “Twenty-five thousand, yes,” Ascott repeated. In reality it was three thousand less, but the old thief took good care not to recall the fact! Wishing to complete the formalities with a certain solemnity, he went over to his strong-box—there was actually next to nothing in it—and drew out the one and only article it contained, the big ledger to wit. After turning over a number of blank leaves, he opened at the page showing Ascott’s name. For a long time the business man hung over the columns of figures as if making a series of complicated calculations. At last he looked up: