"There are valuables in the room," put in the clerk.
"And besides," added the justice of the peace, "M. Schmucke is going out of his own free will."
"Did any one ever see such a client!" Villemot cried indignantly, turning upon Schmucke. "You are as limp as a rag—"
"Vat dos it matter vere von dies?" Schmucke said as he went out. "Dese men haf tiger faces. . . . I shall send somebody to vetch mein bits of dings."
"Where are you going, sir?"
"Vere it shall blease Gott," returned Pons' universal legatee with supreme indifference.
"Send me word," said Villemot.
Fraisier turned to the head-clerk. "Go after him," he whispered.
Mme. Cantinet was left in charge, with a provision of fifty francs paid out of the money that they found. The justice of the peace looked out; there Schmucke stood in the courtyard looking up at the windows for the last time.
"You have found a man of butter," remarked the justice.