“Those four millions belong to me, so you can’t offer them to me.”
Siméon shrugged his shoulders:
“You’re talking nonsense. For the money to belong to you, it must first be in your possession.”
“Certainly.”
“And is it?”
“It is.”
“Explain yourself, explain yourself at once!” snarled Siméon, beside himself with anger and alarm.
“I will explain myself. The hiding-place that couldn’t be got at consisted of four old books, back numbers of Bottin’s directory for Paris and the provinces, each in two volumes. The four volumes were hollow inside, as though they had been scooped out; and there was a million francs in each of them.”
“You lie! You lie!”
“They were on a shelf, in a little lumber-room next the cabin.”