The dancer shrugged his shoulders. He held out his glass to be replenished. The double password had reassured him.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said, "these have been anxious hours."
"The little affair at La Turbie?" Selingman suggested.
Coulois set down his glass for the first time half finished. His mouth had taken an evil turn. He leaned across the table.
"See you," he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, "what happened, happened justly! Martin is responsible. The whole thing was conducted in the spirit of a pantomime, a great joke. Who are we, the Wolves, to brandish empty firearms, to shrink from letting a little blood! Bah!"
He finished his wine. Selingman nodded approvingly as he refilled his glass.
"My friend and I," he confided, "were amongst those who were held up. Imagine it! We stood against the wall like a row of dummies. Such treasure as I have never before seen was poured into that sack. Jewels, my friend, such as only the women of Monte Carlo wear! Packet after packet of mille notes! Wealth immeasurable! Oh, Coulois, Coulois, it was an opportunity lost!"
"Lost!" the dancer echoed fiercely. "It was thrown into the gutter! It was madness! It was hellish, such ill-fortune! Yet what could I do? If I had been absent from here—I, Coulois, whom men know of—even the police would have had no excuse. So it was Martin who must lead. Our armoury had never been fuller. There were revolvers for every one, ammunition for a thousand.... Pardon, monsieur, but I cannot talk of this affair. The anger rises so hot in my heart that I fear to betray myself to those who may be listening. And besides, you have not come here to talk with me of it."
"It is true," Selingman confessed.
There was a brief silence. The dancer was studying them both. There was uneasiness in his expression.