"Number 115,815!" he murmured. "That is to say, there is now somewhere in Paris, or in the provinces, a fortunate mortal who paid a franc for a scrap of paper which he can now exchange for one hundred thousand francs in bank notes. And this lucky fellow is perhaps a millionaire who has more money than he knows what to do with already, whereas if I had one hundred thousand francs I should consider myself independent for life." So reflecting, Puymirol crumpled the list in his hand, and was about to throw it away, when a new idea flashed through his brain. "Why, I still have those tickets I found in the pocket-book. While I was chasing that rascal last night, I placed them in my waistcoat pocket. What if I should find one of the winning numbers among them? Let me see."
He drew out the little packet of tickets, some two dozen in number, and, stopping short behind a newspaper kiosk, he slowly unfolded them. As he glanced at the topmost ticket he could scarcely believe his eyes, for there was the number—the winning number printed in the centre of it. He read and re-read it, examined it again and again, and compared it, figure by figure, with the list in his other hand; but it was all quite true, he certainly had in his possession No. 115,815, which entitled its owner to the grand prize. He had nineteen francs in his pocket, nothing in his desk, and one hundred thousand francs between his fingers. The shock was so great and so unexpected, that, proof as he had always considered himself against emotion, he was obliged to lean against the newspaper kiosk for support. His brain reeled. But suddenly a fresh thought occurred to him. "Dash it! the ticket isn't mine! It belonged to Dargental. In fact, it is the only piece of property he left for his heirs, if he has any. I have no right to appropriate it. It would be a theft." Puymirol's face lengthened, but he quickly recovered himself. "A theft, no. I did not steal it; I found it, or rather it was thrown to me, which amounted to the same thing as giving it to me."
This sophistry did not deceive him, however. He had invented it to quiet his conscience; but he realised how shallow it was. Then he thought of consulting Caumont, but he felt a presentiment that George would advise him to give up the ticket; and he did not care for advice which he did not intend to follow. But where and how was this grand prize payable? Would it only be necessary to show this triumphant No. 115,815 at the lottery office to convert it into bank notes? One of these questions was answered on the back of the ticket. He there read that the office of the Lottery of the Society of Decorative Arts was at the Palais de l'Industrie, in the Champs Elysées, Door No. 4. Puymirol's position was too desperate for him to indulge in much reflection. He made a nervous gesture as if to say: "I must cross the Rubicon," and then he replaced the tickets in his pocket. However, before going to the lottery office, he must set his toilet right. Still, this was easily managed. There were some Turkish baths hard by, and after indulging in the wholesome luxury of Oriental ablutions, he proceeded in due course to a fashionable barber's, where he was shaved, cosmetiqued, and perfumed, so that he would have been presentable anywhere, although he had not changed his linen. These preparations occupied him until eleven o'clock, and then, after partaking of a light breakfast, which exhausted his remaining funds, he hastened to the Palais de l'Industrie. At door No. 4, which seemed to him very like the gate of Paradise, he found a liveried footman talking with two men whom he took for favourites of fortune, who, like himself, had come to receive their money. He explained why he wished to speak to the secretary, and the attendant having gazed at him with admiring envy, told him to walk upstairs. The two persons who had been waiting, followed in his wake, and they all three entered a large ante-room on the first floor. A clerk rose on seeing them, and Puymirol was about to repeat his statement when one of the other fellows hastily approached the clerk, took him aside, and said a few words to him in a low tone; thereupon the clerk immediately opened a side door, and the man passed out and disappeared.
Turning to Puymirol, the clerk then inquired what he wanted, and on learning that he had come to cash a winning ticket, he at once opened a door leading into the office proper, where Puymirol found two prepossessing-looking gentlemen. One of them sat in an arm-chair, while the other occupied a stool at the end of the same table, and had a large leather case, such as is employed for the conveyance of documents, before him. "To whom have I the honour of speaking?" inquired the gentleman in the arm-chair.
"I am the holder of ticket No. 115,815, which is mentioned as having won one hundred thousand francs at your last drawing."
"I congratulate you, sir. Will you take a seat?"
Puymirol accepted the invitation; but in spite of his gracious reception, he felt ill at ease in the presence of these two persons. When a man has not a clear conscience, he sees danger everywhere, and Puymirol almost fancied himself a culprit arraigned before an investigating magistrate and his secretary. It was necessary to exhibit the ticket, however, so he drew the whole packet from his pocket and handed it to the gentleman in the arm-chair, who unfolded it, and examined the tickets one after another. "Here are some that do not interest us," he remarked: "the Tunisian Lottery, the Amsterdam Lottery."
"Yes," replied Puymirol, "I take a chance or two in all of them, but so far I have never won anything."
The official continued his examination, and finally lighted upon No. 115,815. This he examined closely, first upon one side, and then upon the other, and finally passed it to the gentleman seated at the end of the table. "Excuse this close examination," he remarked to Puymirol. "It not infrequently happens that spurious tickets are presented to us; that is to say, tickets of which the numbers have been altered."
"That is not the case with mine, I suppose?"