The American detective Tom Bob was no ordinary man. The very first day after his arrival he had signalized his presence and drawn public attention to himself in a manner at once original and redounding greatly to his credit. Within a few hours of landing on French soil he had shown his mettle by the arrest of a dangerous malefactor, a professional criminal, “Beauty Boy,” the apache. The same day he had adroitly escaped an abominable attempt on his life, and, to crown all, in the course of a series of interviews accorded to the reporters of the different newspapers, he had, in direct contradiction to the generally received opinion, stoutly maintained that the ex-journalist Fandor, the bosom friend of the man Juve, now incarcerated in the prison of La Santé, was a very honest man, the last person to have committed the crimes imputed to him.

For several days, in fact up to the time Tom Bob had come to divert the public curiosity, the Inspectors of the Criminal Investigation Bureau had carried out the most minute investigations at the house where the bank messenger’s murder was supposed, if not to have been committed, at any rate to have been planned and prepared. For whole days together police-officers in plain clothes pursued careful inquiries, questioning the inmates, even going so far as to collect evidence as to the past life and antecedents of each of the tenants.

At any rate, there was one certainty, one sure fact, that delighted the inmates of No. 125 Rue Saint-Fargeau, to wit, that the police, diverted from the old line of scent and henceforth mainly preoccupied to discover the assassin of Désiré Ferrand, were more or less relaxing in their embarrassing attentions, and no longer exercised the same constant and careful surveillance over the scene of the first tragedy.

At an early hour one morning, three or four days after Tom Bob’s arrival in Paris, old Moche, looking just as dubious and dirty as usual, reached his office in the Rue Saint-Fargeau, where he had not been for several days—not that this was a matter to cause the concierge any surprise, M. Moche being habitually a decidedly intermittent occupier of his rooms. The old man seemed in jovial spirits. With little, quick steps he mounted the stairs, whistling a tune; then inserting a key in the lock, he entered his flat. But the old brigand, a cautious man ever since his adventure with Paulet and Nini, took good care to double lock the door again behind him. Changing his long frock-coat for a short jacket, and planting on top of the wig that covered his bald pate a velvet skull-cap in place of his silk-hat, the old fellow set to work to sort out the numerous letters that had arrived by post. To tell the truth, he did not take the trouble to open them, for he knew by merely glancing at the address what each contained, to wit, nothing whatever—a sheet of blank paper or a cutting from an old newspaper. The fact is, Moche was in a better position than anyone to know beforehand the contents of each of his letters, inasmuch as, being desirous of putting the concierge off the scent and impressing him by the voluminous correspondence intended for him, the old man had the habit of every day addressing a dozen letters and prospectuses to himself! It was a dodge to make people believe he really followed the profession of a business agent and could boast a numerous clientèle.

“Sir—I have to inform you that I have just arrived in Paris and propose to call on Wednesday morning at your office. You obliged me some time ago by a loan of money; I now intend to discharge the debt. I am therefore coming to repay you ...”

“Ha, ha!” laughed Père Moche, “a pleasant surprise to come! for once a debtor writes to say he is going to pay up without any need to twist his tail. Well, the exception proves the rule; all the same I rather doubt what it all means.”

Then he jumped to the fourth page and examined the signature.

“By the Lord,” he exclaimed, “it’s my young friend Ascott ... Ascott, that feeble-minded Englishman I have heard nothing of for a very long time—though I never felt any anxiety about the man. Egad! I knew very well he’d been in Paris the last eight and forty hours! is there anything that happens Père Moche doesn’t know? Let’s see what else the young gentleman has to say?... He wants to settle up with me, a very laudable intention, coming from a very honest man. Now how much does the chap owe me?”

Leaving the letter on his desk, the old man trotted over to his safe, opened it, and hauling out a ledger began turning over the leaves eagerly.

“Ascott, here we are! yes, eighteen months ago I lent him 15,000 francs; unless my calculations are all wrong, at the rate of interest agreed upon, he ought to pay me back to-day 22,000. Ah ha! not a bad bit of business! If only a man could have windfalls like that every day, he would be a millionaire in double quick time!”

So saying, M. Moche locked up the book again in the strong-box, and came back to his desk, rubbing his hands.

“I’ve only read the first few lines of his letter,” he said to himself, “and there’s four pages of the stuff. Can it by any chance be that Ascott at the end of his epistle has modified the good intentions expressed at the beginning?”

But a look of chagrin suddenly darkened his ugly face.

“Why, this is vexing,” he muttered; “now he doesn’t need me any more, he scorns me, he wishes us to break off all relations, he intends never to see me again. Oh, ho! none of that, my fine fellow! Just when the goose is fatted, I’m to part with it, eh? No fear, I’m not such a fool! It’s up to you, my good Monsieur Moche, to arrange things so as to creep up Mister Ascott’s sleeve from now on—and now more than ever.”

The old advocate was at this point in his lucubrations, more and more convinced that at all hazards he must remain the rich young Englishman’s friend, when he was startled by a loud knock at the door.

“That’s Ascott,” thought Moche, “let’s be quick and let him in.” The old fellow darted to the entrance of his modest dwelling; rapidly turned the key in the lock and threw the door wide open.

To his profound surprise he found the newcomer was not the elegantly dressed gentleman he expected to see, but a little woman in a flowered peignoir, her hair down her back and her feet crammed into an old pair of sandals. It was Nini Guinon, who had come down from the floor above to pay a neighbourly visit to Père Moche.

“Halloa!” cried the child, who, without waiting for an invitation, had slipped into M. Moche’s office behind the barred partition, “why, you’re a regular bird of passage! never at home, always out! Every time I pass your door, I knock, I ring a peal, I stand there waiting—nothing! nobody! the bird’s flown, the old fox is not in his earth.”

Nini was both angry and excited, as she stood before the old man, passing a feverish hand over her pale brow and ruffling her black locks, while the other looked at her without moving a muscle or saying a word.

“I’m in a hole,” went on the young baggage, “and I’ve got to get out of it, Père Moche; I’m fed up with the whole business, I am! Anyway, here’s straight talking—if you don’t go the way I want, I’ll just be off and blow the gaff to the police mugs.”

“You’ll never do that, Nini,” the old man expostulated in cajoling tones, “you’re much too nice a girl.”

“But come, out with it! what’s it all about?” Moche demanded.

“What’s it all about, eh?” returned the girl, “why, it’s as clear as mud. I’m in a tight place, and other folks are going to be there too if things go on as they are. To begin with, I’ve had enough of living with Paulet; he frightens me, the man frightens me! Ever since I saw him do in the bank chap, I’m terrified all the time he’ll do my business for me, too. He’s no spunk at all; it’s not blood he has in his veins, it’s water; I sleep with him and I know what I’m talking about; every night he lies and sweats; it’s fear, that’s what it is! He dreams of the police, he dreams about the dead man, he yells out in his sleep. The man’s all broke to pieces, he’ll come to a bad end; if ever the ’tecs come questioning him a bit close, he’ll never have gumption enough to put ’em off with blarney, and then, by God! we’ll all be in the soup!”

“Alas! my dear child,” murmured the old fellow hypocritically, “what do you want me to do; all that business has nothing to do with me. You have killed a man, the stolen money has disappeared, you understand, disappeared, nobody can say where it is. Now suppose they accused me, the thing wouldn’t hold water for a moment; for why? because I’m well known as an honest, respectable business man. So get out of your own difficulties!”

As a matter of fact Nini had from the first understood perfectly well what attitude old Moche would adopt under the circumstances. Not a doubt of it, if things turned out badly, the old business agent was clever enough to pull his iron safely out of the fire, and certainly cynical enough to leave his confederates in the lurch. But Nini had no notion of things going like that; she strode up to M. Moche, and shaking her little fist in the old man’s wrinkled face:

“As sure as my name’s Nini,” she swore, “if ever we get run in for this job, I give you my oath, Père Moche, you’ll leave every feather of your dirty plumage behind; but if we come to an agreement ...”

“If we come to an agreement ...” the advocate repeated the phrase with newly-aroused interest.

The offer of partnership thus formulated by the young slut was just the sort of thing to appeal to the old usurer. Nodding his head approvingly:

“Your notion’s really not such a bad one, my little girl,” he said; “only, what’s to become of you?”

Nini, encouraged by the way the interview was shaping, had dropped nonchalantly into the one and only armchair the room contained. Now, with eyes fixed on the ceiling, the girl sat in a day-dream, a prophetic dream.

“I have a sort of a notion,” she murmured, “that with all these new complications, Paulet is going to get cotched. First, there’s that journalist Fandor drawing attention to the house; then they find the button off the poor devil’s uniform in your garret; Fandor disappears; on the other hand Tom Bob arrives. What does the fellow count for? I don’t know, but I have my doubts; he must be pretty smart, he nabbed ‘Beauty Boy’ in less time than it takes to tell the story! So then, it all comes to this—little Nini’s had enough, thank you, she’s got to bolt, and that at sixty miles an hour, and Papa Moche, who’s no fool neither, has got to find her a place, for choice with the nobs, to save her from any future worries. Does that suit your book, Père Moche? Is that settled, eh?... You’ll clearly understand this, I didn’t leave the bosom of my family to go and rot on Devil’s Island or be eaten up by the mosquitoes at New Caledonia.”

Père Moche was prodigiously diverted by this announcement of her principles of action on the part of Paulet’s girl mistress. Undoubtedly there was something to be made of this little minx with the wide-awake look and bright eyes, so vicious and so astute. He was about to reply, when suddenly a peal on the door bell was heard.

“Who’s that coming?” Nini asked anxiously, as she instinctively laid a hand on her bosom to restrain the excited beating of her heart.

“If milord will condescend to step into my reception room?...” suggested M. Moche ...

Ascott obeyed mechanically, but disclaimed the rank his host had given him.

“I am not Lord Ascott, Monsieur Moche; I am plain Mr. Ascott; the title of lord belongs to my honoured father.”

“Ho, ho!” suggested the old man with a tactless grin, “a father—a father may die one fine day, and if I’m not mistaken, the sons inherit both the money and all the privileges and prerogatives.”

The young man shrugged his shoulders:

“I forbid you to speak of my honoured father, sir; and besides that, you must know that in no case shall I bear the title; I am a younger son of the family, my older brother will be My Lord.”

But Moche was incorrigible and went on to insinuate:

“The elder brother no doubt ... but suppose he should happen to die, too.”

Ascott stamped his foot angrily and cast a furious look at the old money-lender.

“That is enough, sir,” he declared in an indignant voice quivering with restrained anger, “that is enough! let us settle up our accounts; that done, we will break off all relations.”

But Moche was for slipping away: “Forgive me, dear sir, noble gentleman, honourable signor, if I trouble you to wait a few moments, but there is a lady in my office, a very important client; I must conclude my business with her. By your leave ...” Moche, with another low bow, awaited the reply. “Get done, and be quick about it!” was the rough answer.

“Come here, little girl!” and on her obeying, drew her to the window, setting her with her face to the full light. With his coarse, hairy hands the old usurer lifted the child’s touzled locks, parted them on her forehead and imprisoned the tangled curls in his palm. Nini let him do as he liked, puzzled and uncomprehending.

“D’you know,” declared the old man, “d’you know, with your hair down like a little girlie, you look ever so young.”

“But,” protested Nini, “I’m not old; I’m barely sixteen and a half.”

“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.

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:

“My excellent client,” he said gravely, “you will excuse my contradicting you, but it is not twenty-five thousand francs you owe me, it is merely twenty-four thousand, five hundred; I am nothing if not honest; I wouldn’t wrong you by one single centime.”

The effect of this declaration was to make the young Englishman laugh: “Egad! Monsieur Moche,” he declared, “they’ve changed you surely, the thing’s impossible!”

“That,” Ascott broke in drily, “I cannot promise; I don’t care, I tell you frankly, to have relations with men of your stamp. In the last eighteen months I’ve been travelling up and down the world, I have changed very much, I have money now; I am going to make a home in Paris, where I propose to live as a good citizen, spending no more than my income.”

“I’ve been told,” M. Moche interrupted, “that you have just bought a delightful little house in the Rue Fortuny.”

“How came you to know that?” demanded Ascott, not denying the fact.

“Pooh!” said Moche, “in the great world of business and finance to which I belong, we know pretty well everything that happens.”

“Really?” said Ascott incredulously, amazed to think that so insignificant a person as Moche, a moneylender of a low type, could be in any way connected with the big and highly respected bankers of the Place de Paris through whom he had negotiated the purchase of the house in the Rue Fortuny. But Moche was well posted without a doubt. By a fresh question he more than ever surprised the rich Englishman; he now suggested, speaking out without any reticence or beating about the bush:

“Doubtless it’s to build a pretty nest for a grand mistress you’ve bought that exquisite house; I have heard say that a certain Monsieur Ascott, here present, is head over ears in love with a certain Russian princess named Sonia Danidoff, with whom he crossed the Atlantic on board the Lorraine.”

Ascott sprang up in extreme agitation.

“Moche,” he cried, “you think you are a wonderful man who knows everything, but you are behind the fair, my friend, this time; yes, I admit, I was deeply in love with the Princess Danidoff, and I confess I was in hopes that in France, after the persevering court I paid her, she would at last consent to grant me her favours—but events have decided otherwise.”

“To think that fool princess prefers a common detective to you!”

Ascott literally flew at the old villain’s throat, and shaking him by the shoulder,

“So then,” he vociferated, “so then, you know everything?”

Moche smiled quietly:

“No, not everything,” he protested, “but some little matters!... I take it the Princess Danidoff has no more brains than a sparrow, she must be out of her wits to like this low-class police spy better than you ...”

But Moche suddenly stopped dead: “I beg your pardon, but there’s someone knocking,” he exclaimed, and went to open the door, pretending to be greatly surprised.

Throwing out his arms and speaking loud enough for Ascott to hear him, he greeted the visitor warmly:

“Oh, ho! little Nini, it’s you, is it? what a stroke of luck! How is my dear sister, your good mother? d’you bring me good news?”

Like a finished actress, Nini stood up on tiptoe, threw her arms round the old scamp’s neck and kissed him on the brow tenderly, but respectfully. Paulet’s mistress had perfectly well understood Père Moche’s instructions. With her modest, decent get-up, she had all the appearance, all the charm of youth, freshness and purity, of an honest little Paris workgirl, one of those pretty flowers that bloom in many a happy home of good, respectable, industrious working people. The girl was entirely charming with her virginal air of innocence and chastity.

Père Moche was all smiles as he looked at her; such was the old scamp’s artfulness in disguising his true feelings that as he stood beside the young girl he offered the very picture of a kind, good uncle, proud and happy in the beauty of his little niece! The man seemed to forget his sordid trade amid these tokens of family affection. Like a father proud of his child, he turned to Ascott, who had been the interested witness of this intimate and touching little scene.

Ascott bowed to the young girl, muttering to himself: “She’s charming, charming!” But Moche, seeming not to hear the remark, went on, addressing himself to Nini:

“Come, don’t be frightened, show you know your manners, say good-day to the gentleman, offer him your hand!”

Nini dropped her eyes, shyly extended her arm, let Ascott imprison her little hand in his nervous fingers, which held it a moment or two—perhaps longer than was quite necessary.

But old Moche was anxious, as a good uncle should be, not to make his niece waste her time.

“My dear child,” he declared, smacking a big kiss on her blushing cheek, “I’m so pleased to have seen you, but you must run away now, for I suppose you’ve work to do, eh?”

“Yes,” replied Nini in a little soft, childish voice, “I must be let off to deliver a bodice for the lady on the third floor, and then I’m to match some things at the shops near the Bourse. But I came to ask you, dear uncle, to come to dinner with us this evening; mamma will be so pleased.” Moche never moved a muscle as he listened to the little speech Nini Guinon reeled off, looking her straight in the eyes and preserving an imperturbable gravity. The old brigand was lost in wonder; ah! how well the child played her part, so cutely, so cleverly—with her way of never looking at Ascott, but all the same contriving to attract the Englishman’s admiration. Most certainly he would make something of little Nini, never fear!

The bogus uncle and the pseudo-niece took leave of each other prettily. Nini dropped a curtsy as she withdrew, while Ascott, with shining eyes, bowed to the ground before her.

Hardly had the charming vision disappeared ere Ascott, hitherto so frigid and impassive in demeanor, showed a complete change of attitude, marching up and down M. Moche’s office in the throes of a feverish excitement. But the old scamp pretended not to notice anything, busily occupied it seemed in sorting his papers. Suddenly he started round; the Englishman was addressing him. “Monsieur Moche, Monsieur Moche!” he called. Then in hesitating accents Ascott went on:

“Well, yes,” the old brigand observed, feigning not to understand the young man’s drift, “it’s true she has fine eyes, but she’s quite a child yet ... the ‘awkward age,’ you know ... later on, I don’t say, when she’s developed a bit; then her good mother and I will find the girl a good husband.”

“Moche,” broke in Ascott, “I want to know your niece.”

“But,” returned the villain, still with the same affectation of naïveté, “you do know her, didn’t I introduce you?”

“You are a trifle obtuse, Monsieur Moche, or else a bit too clever; it’s not in that sense I wish to know her, not I. Your niece is to my taste; at the present moment I have no mistress ...”

The old “advocate” sprang back, feigning the most extravagant indignation:

“Oh, sir, sir,” he cried, “my dear sir, no, upon my word, I could never have believed that of you; do you dare to come to me to make such a proposal? Certainly I’m not a rich man, and little Nini’s sole and only capital is her virtue and her beauty—it is something, it is a great deal even—but by the Lord God, I give you my oath, I will never, never agree to such a bargain. What do you take me for?”

But Ascott still persisted:

“I take you, Monsieur Moche, for a man of common-sense ... come now, I or another, what harm can it do you?... while, seeing it is I——”

“But, my dear sir, my dear client,” stammered Moche, who was acting to perfection despair, embarrassment and perplexity, “but, sir, not you any more than another; my little niece is still a child, and then, she is an honest girl and a good and a virtuous; I wouldn’t for anything in all the world ... Besides, just think of it—I, her uncle!”

Ascott interrupted the indignant speaker:

“Come, now, how much?”

M. Moche seemed overwhelmed by the insult; he sank into his armchair and took his head between his hands, vociferating in heartbroken tones and a voice choked with sobs:

Moche left his sentence unfinished, broke off his peroration in mid career, for it had become entirely unnecessary. Peeping through his parted fingers, the old rascal had not missed a single one of Ascott’s movements. Now the latter, leaving the old man to finish out his litany of lamentations by himself, had suddenly quitted the room, banging the door behind him. This was just what Moche was hoping for; he calculated that the Englishman, seeing nothing could be made of the uncle, was going to try and catch up the niece before she had left the house. Treading softly, he crept to the door giving on the landing outside, the same Ascott had shut a moment or two before, and set it ajar. There he stood listening, his face beaming, and rubbing his hands.

Ascott, who had caught sight of Nini Guinon on the floor below as he was going downstairs, was leaning over the bannister and calling in a voice shaking with excitement:

“Mademoiselle! pst! Mademoiselle, I say! Mademoiselle Eugénie! Listen!”

Then it was Nini’s clear, flute-like voice, pitched in a tone of perfect innocence, that answered:

“Who’s calling me? Is it you, dear uncle?”

Ascott, lowering his voice, and now flying three steps at a time down the stairs to join the girl below, went on:

“Why, no, mademoiselle, so to speak, it’s not just exactly your uncle, but it’s I, his friend, the gentleman who was in his office just now. Listen, I’ve something to tell you; will you let me walk with you?”

Then the two voices mingled in an indistinct murmur, and the pair could be heard leaving the house.

Moche went back into his rooms with every sign of profound satisfaction, skipping about clumsily like a dancing bear in a merry mood.

“Taken! the bait’s taken fine!” he chuckled, “not a doubt of it, here’s another stroke of genius to good old Père Moche’s credit!”