Pochard hesitated, scratched his head and shrugged a. shoulder. "I do not like it, you understand. It has worried me all day—an American—a soldier. One cannot tell what would happen if the police——"
Piquette understood at once. Her fingers closed again over the arm of Pochard.
"What have you done with him?"
Pochard bent forward, whispering. "He lies in the house in the Rue Charron by the river. A knock on the head—c'est tout—and chloroform."
Piquette was silent, staring at the wall. Then she fixed her wide gaze on the conspirator.
"Bah! You are a fool, Pochard!" she shot at him. "They will catch you sure. How much?"
"Two thousand francs."
"And you get half," contemptuously. "Who did it?"
"Tricot and Le Singe Anglais."
"Tricot!"