"Yes," Ernestine was explaining to Mimile while the Sapper nodded approvingly, "the Beard is, as you might say, the head of the band of Cyphers, next to Loupart, of course. To belong to the Beard's gang you've got to have done up at least one guy. Then you get your Number 1. Your figure increases according to the number of deaders you have to your credit."
"So then," inquired Mimile, with eager curiosity, "Riboneau, who has just been sentenced, is called number 'seven' because ..."
"Because," added the Sapper in his serious voice, "because he has killed off seven."
In a few curt questions the Square posted himself as to young Mimile, who had impressed him favourably.
Josephine turned to Loupart: "What else am I to put in the letter? Why are you stopping?"
For answer, the Square suddenly sprang to his feet, seized a half-empty bottle and flung it on the floor, where it broke. This act of violence sent the company scattering, and Loupart roared out:
"It's on account of spies that I'm stopping! By God! When are we going to see their finish? And besides," he added, staring hard at Ernestine, "I've had enough of all this nonsense; better clear out of here or there'll be trouble."
Cunningly, with bloodshot eyes, her fists clenched in fury, but humbly submissive, the girl made ready to comply. She knew the Square was master, and there was no use standing out against his will.
The Sapper himself, growling, picked up his change, little disposed to have a row, and beckoning to his comrade, Nonet, effected a humble exit under cover of the girl Ernestine.
Loupart's arm fell upon the shoulder of Mimile, who alone seemed to defy Josephine's formidable lover.
"Hold on, young 'un," ordered Loupart. "You seem to have some nerve; better join us."
Mimile's eyes lighted up with joy.
"Oh!" he stammered, "Loupart, you'll take me in the Cypher gang?"
"Maybe," was the enigmatic reply. Then with a shove he sent the young man to the back of the den. "Must go and talk it over with the Beard." Without paying heed to the thanks of his new recruit, Loupart continued his dictation to Josephine.
As the Sapper and Nonet went quickly down the Rue Charbonnière, Nonet inquired:
"Well, chief, what do you think of our evening?"
The individual that the hooligans of La Chapelle knew by the nickname of the Sapper, and who was no other than Inspector Michel, slowly stroked his long beard:
"Not much," he declared, "except that we've been bluffed by the Square."
"Why not round up the bunch?" suggested Nonet, who was known as Inspector Léon.
"It's easy enough to talk, but what can two do against twenty? Who wants to take such risks for sixty dollars a month?"
In the meantime Josephine was writing at the Square's dictation:
"I know, sir, that to-morrow Loupart will be at Garnet's wine-shop at seven o'clock, which you know is to the right as you go up the Faubourg Montmartre, before you reach the Rue Lamartine. From there he will go to Doctor Chaleck's to tackle the safe, which is placed, as I told you, at the far side of the study, facing the window, with its balcony overlooking the garden. I wouldn't have meddled in the matter except that there'll be something worse regarding a woman. I can't tell you any more, for this is all I know. Make the best of it, and for God's sake never let Loupart know the letter was sent to you by the undersigned.
"Very respectfully,"
About to sign her name, Josephine looked up, trembling and anxious.
"What does it mean, Loupart? You've been drinking, I'm sure you have!"
"Sign, I tell you," calmly replied the Square, and the girl, hypnotised, proceeded to trace in her large clumsy hand, her name, "Josephine Ramot."
"Now put it in an envelope."
From the end of the saloon the Beard was signalling Loupart.
"What is it?" the latter cried, annoyed at the interruption.
The Beard came near and whispered:
"Important business. The dock man's scheme is going well — it'll be for the end of the week, Saturday at latest."
"In four days, then?"
"In four days."
"All right," declared Josephine's lover, "we'll be on hand. It'll be a big haul, I hear."
"Fifty thousand at least, the Cooper told me."
Loupart nodded, waved the Beard aside and resumed:
"Address it to
"Monsieur Juve,
"Commissioner of Safety,
"At the Prefecture, Paris."
II
ON THE TRACK
The daily paper, The Capital, was about to go to press. The editors had handed over the last slips of copy with the latest news.
"Well, Fandor," asked the Secretary, "nothing more for me?"
"No, nothing."
"You won't spring a 'latest' on me?"
"Not unless the President of the Republic should be assassinated."
"Right enough. But don't joke. Lord, there's something else to be done just now."
The "setter up" appeared in the editor's rooms:
"I want sharp type for 'one,' and eight lines for 'two.'"
Discreetly, as a man accustomed to the business, Fandor withdrew on hearing the request of the "setter up," avoiding the searching glance of the sub-editor, who forthwith to meet the demands of the paging, called at random one of the reporters and passed on the order to him.
"Some lines of special type; eight lines. Take up the Cretan question on the Havas telegrams. Be quick!"
Fandor picked up his hat and stick and left the office. His berth as police-reporter meant a constantly active and unsettled existence. He was never his own master, never knew ten minutes beforehand what he was going to do, whether he might go home, start on a journey, interview a minister or risk his life by an investigation in the world of thugs and cut-throats.
"Deuce take it!" he cried as he passed the office door and saw what the time was. "I simply must go to the courts, and it's already very late...." He ran forward a few paces, then stopped short. "And that porter murdered at Belleville!... If I don't cover that affair I shall have nothing interesting to turn in...."
He retraced his steps, looking for a cab and swearing at the narrowness of the Rue Montmartre, where the inadequate pavements forced the foot passengers to overflow on to the roadway, which was choked with costermongers' carts, heavy motor-buses, and all that swarm of vehicles which gives a Paris street an air of bustle unequalled in any other capital in the world. As he was about to pass the corner of the Rue Bergère, a porter laden down with sample boxes, strung on a hook, ran into him, almost knocking him down.
"Look where you're going!" cried the journalist.
"Look out yourself," replied the man insolently.
Fandor, with an angry shrug of his shoulders, was about to pursue his way, when the man stopped him.
"Sir, can you direct me to the Rue du Croissant?"
"Follow the Rue Montmartre and take the second turning to the right."
"Thank you, sir; could you give me a light?"
Fandor could not repress a smile. He