M. Moche was in a generous mood that morning. He now beckoned to the waiter of the drinking shop where he sat with a companion, the apache known by the nickname of the “Gasman,” and ordered a bottle of wine and glasses to be set on the table. But the old man had certainly not summoned this “Gasman” to meet him merely for the pleasure of standing the young ruffian a drink. For a good quarter of an hour they had been hobnobbing together, and the old business agent had been engaged in explaining to his man the particular service he required of him. To start with, indeed, and by way of preliminary to insure the confidence and good will of his ally, Père Moche, as he shook hands on saying good-morning, had slipped between the “Gasman’s” gnarled fingers a nice little bank note for fifty francs, which the apache, nothing if not practical, had instantly pocketed, prepared to learn later on what he would have to do in return, or even to refuse to take on the job if he did not fancy it.

When the bottle was half empty, Moche came back to the business in hand.

“Then it’s settled,” he asked, “we may count on you?”

The apache pushed his chair back, leant his great body far across the table, rested his head between the palms of his hands and looking hard at the old business man:

“That depends,” he announced in a decided tone.

“What d’ye mean?” asked Moche in surprise.

The “Gasman” repeated: “That depends. Question is who’re we working for? For my part, since all these here to-dos, you’ll understand, I’m beginning to be a bit off. Fantômas’ gang and me being in the know with ’em, that’s all very fine and large; but sure as I’m here drinking at your expense, the thing can’t go on, and it’s bound to end badly.”

“Right oh!” agreed the apache; “let’s talk about your business then instead!”

“Well then,” resumed Père Moche, “you quite understand I count on you implicitly for to-night. Now there must be two of you for the job, so stir your stumps this afternoon and find a bully boy at a loose end. Who are you going to take, eh?”

The apache thought a moment, twisting his long moustache, then suggested:

“I don’t see anyone hardly but ‘Bull’s-eye,’ you know who I mean, who’d just do ...”

Moche approved the selection: “That’s the ticket, go and fix it up with your friend; he’s a good cuss and no white liver,” he grinned.

But Moche grew grave again: “Don’t forget to bring along all the properties—some good strong rope, and of course a handkerchief, you know, to make a gag—part of your stock in trade all that, eh, ‘Gasman’?”

Then, discovering it was half past eleven, and he was behind time, M. Moche shook the apache hurriedly by the hand and vanished. With rapid strides the old usurer made his way down the Rue de Belleville and so to the line of the exterior boulevards, where he hailed a cab, telling the man to drive him to the Silver Goblet, a restaurant on the Place de la Bastille.

What new scheme could the dubious advocate of the Rue Saint-Fargeau be meditating now? What was the shady enterprise he was planning, for which he needed the co-operation of two notorious apaches from Ménilmontant like the “Gasman” and “Bull’s-eye”? On arriving at his destination, M. Moche took the landlord on one side; the latter seemed an old acquaintance.

“I want you to keep me for to-night,” he whispered in his ear, “the little pink room; I shall be coming to dine there about eight o’clock with some swell clients; put on a man who can hold his tongue to wait.”

“You can trust to me, Monsieur Moche, you shall have what you want, and you shan’t be disturbed. Anyway, the season’s drawing to a close and we’re hardly serving any more dinners in private rooms; you may count on having the whole floor practically to yourselves.”

The old fellow was entirely satisfied by what he heard, and at once took his departure, striding fast along the streets and whistling a cheerful march tune.

“Dress-coat, smoking jacket? what is monsieur going to wear this evening?”

“Neither, John; lay out my lounge coat.”

“You are not going out then, sir, and you have not anybody asked to dinner?”

Mr. Ascott stopped in the middle of arranging his tie; and turning to his man, said sharply:

“I am not dining at home, and I ask you for my lounge coat, that’s all.”

John, while obeying orders, still wore a scandalized air:

“Excuse my speaking like this, sir, but I cannot help telling you, sir, that for some days now you have been neglecting your personal appearance, sir. What, you are going abroad, sir, in a lounge suit and dining out in such a costume? In New York or in London, you would never think of such a breach of etiquette.”

Ascott interrupted his man-servant’s flow of words with a look of weary discouragement:

“I shall do just what I choose, John; and let me tell you, it’s only out of consideration for your age and the years you have been with my family I don’t reprimand you severely for the liberties you take.”

The man dropped his eyes and with a chagrined air:

“I beg pardon, sir, it was only the interest I take in you, sir, made me say what I did.”

Ascott let the matter drop. Presently, his hands very busy adjusting a carnation in the buttonhole of his coat, he asked:

“The Princess Danidoff did not ring up on the ’phone this afternoon.”

“No, sir; in fact it is several days now we have had no news of the princess.”

John looked his approval.

“Quite right, sir; these great ladies always give more trouble than they’re worth, and if I might offer you a piece of advice, sir ...”

“Well, out with it.”

“Well, it would be just to take for mistress one of those pretty actresses there’s so many of in Paris and who would ask nothing better, or else get to know a nice, good little girl, a gentle and modest young thing who would love you tenderly ...”

Ascott burst into a loud laugh.

“’Pon my word, John, you’re in a prophetic vein to-day, ha, ha! Who tells you I’m not going to follow your advice to the letter?”

“Why, sir, do you know some young girl in society?”

“In society, h’m! not high society certainly ... but one that is honest and peaceable and sincere; yes, perhaps I do, and I’m beginning to think even I’m pretty deep in love.”

John rubbed his hands in naïve satisfaction; he ventured: “You must tell me about it, sir.”

But next minute Ascott checked himself and his face resumed a stern look full of haughty reserve.

He was ready to go. “John, hand me my hat.”—“Very good, Sir.”—“My stick.”—“Here it is, sir!”

“John, I shall not be back perhaps till late at night—perhaps not at all; no need to sit up for me.”

“Very good, sir ... good-night, sir!”

“Good-night, John.”

Père Moche was grumbling sourly:

“The thing’s disgusting. Since they did away with the correspondance tickets, the omnibus offices are getting fewer and fewer and less and less used. I had the devil’s own job to find just this one here to arrange to meet you at.”

“But why,” demanded Nini, teasing the old man, “why couldn’t you let me join you at the pub on the corner there? We could have swigged a half-pint or so then in the mug’s honour.”

M. Moche started, and putting on a grieved look, began to scold the too outspoken Nini—albeit he felt a strong inclination to laugh all the while.

“You slut, will you never be serious? You spend your time humbugging, trying to frighten me, you do. I’m all the while in a stew you’ll let out a big ’un before him ...”

Nini completed the old advocate’s sentence for him:

“... A big ’un that’ll make him see I’m not just exactly an angel come down from heaven with her crown of orange blossom on her head, all ready to fall into his arms; eh, Père Moche, isn’t that what makes you sweat?”

But Moche knew better; he gave the child a friendly tap on her rosy cheek: “No, not really, mind you; I’m not a bit afraid, you’re a deal too artful to give yourself away,” and looking admiringly at the girl, he added:

“It wouldn’t take much more to take me in, too, with your modest, virtuous air, and those great innocent eyes of yours!”

But next moment M. Moche turned serious.

“Attention!” he cried, “steady! here comes the pigeon; stand by to blush, niece!”

Thereupon Ascott appeared at the door of the omnibus office; the young Englishman might have stepped out of a bandbox, smart, elegant, freshly shaved, and carrying in his arms an enormous bunch of flowers!

The complicated plot arranged some days beforehand by old Moche seemed to be working out under the most favourable auspices. He had introduced his bogus niece to the rich young Englishman at a highly opportune moment, just when Ascott, chagrined at having paid assiduous court to the Princess Sonia Danidoff, only to see the latter prefer to himself the latest recruit to her band of admirers, the American stranger, the detective, Tom Bob, who, from the first moment of his arrival in France, had worn in all men’s eyes an aureole of glory and success. Moved less by love than by a sort of obstinacy, Ascott had indeed striven to contend against this adversary, but events had occurred so rapidly and so much in favour of his rival that the wealthy Englishman, in spite of being the first in the field and the first accredited suitor for the princess’s hand, had been forced to take second place. For was it not, in fact, this same Tom Bob again who, forty-eight hours earlier, had rescued the unfortunate Sonia Danidoff from a terrible and almost certain death? Evidently the detective had not succeeded in saving the princess’s jewels, but he had saved her life, and swore to protect her against the mysterious and terrible attacks of the ever elusive and enigmatic scoundrel, who seemed especially bent on her destruction.

The young Englishman accordingly invited M. Moche to lunch, lunch for two, tête-à-tête. Moreover, despite the instinctive repulsion he felt for the fellow, he found himself forced to admit, before the meal was over, that he was after all a cheerful boon-companion, not lacking in wit and possessed of a store of racy anecdotes well calculated to dispel his melancholy. Adroitly enough, Ascott brought the conversation round to the subject of M. Moche’s little niece, displaying an interest in the child’s future, and he deemed himself more than clever when, after endless beating about the bush, he finally succeeded in persuading Père Moche to dine with him and bring little Nini with him one evening soon.

Poor fellow, he little dreamt he had to do with a man far cleverer than himself, and that the favour he had obtained at the cost of so many difficulties was really and truly but the consummation of the plot conceived by the Machiavellian business agent and his abominable little accomplice.

... Thus Ascott arrived to the minute at the rendezvous, in the omnibus office in the Place de la Bastille at 7.30, his heart in his mouth, his mind in a joyous tumult, his arms full of flowers, all for the woman towards whom he now began to feel a genuine and sincere affection!

Ascott, entering more and more into the spirit of the thing, kept on replenishing his guests’ glasses with champagne, hoping to intoxicate old Moche altogether and make the girl sufficiently tipsy to prove less obdurate in repelling the caresses he lavished on her. He himself, too, by way of stimulating his courage, was drinking pretty hard, and, all things considered, was very likely consuming on his own sole account a great deal more than his two companions both together.

Once, as he was bending down behind Nini, pretending to pick something up from the floor, in reality in order to put his burning lips to the cool, inviting surface of the girl’s neck behind, Ascott failed to see how Père Moche, with the lightning quickness of a conjuring trick, sprinkled a whitey-grey powder over the frothing liquor in his champagne glass. Dessert was on the table. But while Nini, nibbling at the strawberries on her plate, refused to drink any more wine, Ascott, who was tormented with a thirst that grew momentarily more intense, had a fourth bottle of champagne uncorked, of which he poured a good third into a glass for himself and drained it off at a draught.

The Englishman was rapidly getting drunk, and now threw discretion to the winds in his plaguing of Nini, who more than once, playing her part to perfection, administered some shrewd slaps on the young man’s over enterprising hands. She even sprang up from her seat, as if to fly for refuge to her uncle and demand his protection.

Old Moche followed the whole scene with a very wide awake glance, humming a tune at intervals and mimicking the ways of a man excited by the fumes of a heady wine and viewing life under the most roseate aspect. At a given moment, however, the old fellow, after looking surreptitiously at his watch, noted that it was half past eleven. He rose from the table staggering. Ascott burst out laughing. “By the Lord! my dear Moche,” he cried out in a thick voice, “I verily believe you’re jolly well drunk!”

Moche swayed more unsteadily than ever on his feet.

Moche picked up a full glass, solemnly lifted it from the table, rounding his elbow in a majestic gesture. Doubtless his condition baulked his praiseworthy efforts, for the glass after some frantic oscillations suddenly turned topsy turvy, spilling the wine over the carpet.

The accident provoked an uproarious fit of wild mirth from Ascott: “Oh! there is no doubt about it, the old man is awfully drunk.” And now the young Englishman’s cup of happiness was filled to the brim, as he heard the other declare:

“Why, yes, I don’t feel very well, my head’s going round a bit. With your leave, I’ll go out and breathe the fresh air a minute; but none of your nonsense now whilst I’m away! Ascott, I count on your good behaviour, I entrust that dear, good, virtuous child to your care”—and Père Moche disappeared.

Scarcely was he out of the room before Ascott shook off his intoxication and managed to rise from the divan on which he sprawled. Stepping to the door of the private room, he shot the bolt with an unsteady hand; then, regardless of Nini’s hypocritical prayers and protests, he went to the switch and turned off the electric current.

“Oh! sir, sir!” shrilled the girl in a terrified voice, “what are you doing?... oh!... for God’s sake, let me be ... mother!”

Meantime, no sooner was Moche out in the passage leading to the private rooms than he recovered all his coolness and self-possession, as if by a miracle. The old scamp was much too astute to have let himself get tipsy; it was simply a piece of play-acting he had been at for the benefit of his host, a comedy that did not in the least take in his confidante and accomplice, Nini Guinon, though it completely bamboozled the young Englishman. With no small satisfaction Moche noted—as indeed the landlord had led him to expect when he came that morning to order the little dinner—that the adjoining rooms were unoccupied. After that he made sure that no one could spy on them from the floor below.

Next, slipping down the back stairs leading direct from the entresol into the street, Moche was quickly in the open air. Advancing a few paces along the sidewalk, he whistled and then stood listening. A second later a succession of notes became audible, similar to those formed by the old man’s lips; again advancing, he came upon two fellows lurking in a doorway. It was the “Gasman” and “Bull’s-eye,” and not far off stood an automobile, to which the old man pointed with the question: “It’s yours, that contraption yonder?”

“Yes,” replied the “Gasman,” “that’s to say it’s a pal’s machine; we chose him because he’s as silent as the tomb, and don’t have no eyes in the back of his head; he’ll do what he’s told—asks three louis for his night.”

“All serene!” declared Moche, rubbing his hands. “Now listen to me, you chaps; keep an eye on the shanty I’ve come out of, and when I show my hat out of the window, you must come along softly, the pigeon’ll be asleep. The pigeon’s mate’ll go with you and no fuss, you may rely on that. As you drive on, best clap on the cords and the gag; you might be interrupted, and it must all be shipshape, just to avoid accidents. Twig?”

“Right oh!” sang out “Bull’s-eye” and the “Gasman” in chorus.

Moche, in generous mood, handed over to each of them a fifty franc note: “You see,” he pointed out, “I always pay well.”

“Yes,” growled “Bull’s-eye,” “that ain’t like Fantômas, that ain’t! Didn’t I give him a hand in that there lake business, when he cleared off with the princess’s jewelry. Well, if I’ve made a brown or two out of it, that’s about all—just because he didn’t see me at work. I’m thinking if Fantômas don’t fork out ...”

At the door of the private room, the old man, resuming his former rôle, gave a discreet tap, saying with a laugh:

“Why, what now?... so you’ve locked yourself in, eh? a little joke, for sure?... but no more nonsense now! Come, come, open the door. Do be serious a bit ... and then you know, I’m still thirsty, I want to finish out the bottle!”

Then he stopped talking to listen. Not a sound came from inside and the old fellow was growing impatient. He knocked twice, sharply and peremptorily.

At last the door opened, and Nini appeared, her hair flying loose and her clothes in disorder.

“What a time he’s been giving me!” she whispered grinning, “a devil of a fellow, my dear man!”

But Moche was in no joking mood; he demanded: “And now?”

“Now,” Nini proceeded, still speaking under her breath; but opening the door a little wider, so that Moche could slip into the room, which was still in darkness, “now he’s snoring like a good ’un! suppose it’s the powder you tipped into his champagne; I bet he’s good to sleep on till to-morrow morning, come what may.”

Moche looked down at Ascott, who lay stretched on the divan, and saw that Nini was speaking the truth; the young man was sleeping like a top. The old usurer shook him by the arm, twitched his hair, but the Englishman, as drunk as a lord and bowled over into the bargain by the soporific he had swallowed, was beyond rousing.

Without relighting the lights, Moche ran to the window and waved his hat out of it; then coming back into the room, he laughed delightedly.

“First-rate, my gal, it’s going first-rate,” he assured Nini; “to my mind the job’s as good as done!”

The two accomplices fell silent a moment, then with one impulse both stood listening. On the stairs communicating directly with the street the sound of stealthy footsteps could be heard. It was “Bull’s-eye” and the “Gasman” coming up.