"Yes, aunt," said a youth standing beside her.
Nicolas Dugrival, his wife and his nephew Gabriel were well-known figures at the race-meetings, where the regular frequenters saw them almost every day: Dugrival, a big, fat, red-faced man, who looked as if he knew how to enjoy life; his wife, also built on heavy lines, with a coarse, vulgar face, and always dressed in a plum-coloured silk much the worse for wear; the nephew, quite young, slender, with pale features, dark eyes and fair and rather curly hair.
As a rule, the couple remained seated throughout the afternoon. It was Gabriel who betted for his uncle, watching the horses in the paddock, picking up tips to right and left among the jockeys and stable-lads, running backward and forward between the stands and the pari-mutuel.
Luck had favoured them that day, for, three times, Dugrival's neighbours saw the young man come back and hand him money.
The fifth race was just finishing. Dugrival lit a cigar. At that moment, a gentleman in a tight-fitting brown suit, with a face ending in a peaked grey beard, came up to him and asked, in a confidential whisper:
"Does this happen to belong to you, sir?"
And he displayed a gold watch and chain.
Dugrival gave a start:
"Why, yes ... it's mine.... Look, here are my initials, N. G.: Nicolas Dugrival!"
And he at once, with a movement of terror, clapped his hand to his jacket-pocket. The note-case was still there.