"Have you got consciences—your sort?" cried de Loubersac, casting a glance of withering contempt at the supposed old man.
There was a silence. Then de Loubersac walked up to the old accordion player and asked anxiously:
"Can you give me proofs of the truth of what you have just asserted?"
"Perhaps," was the evasive answer.
"You will have to give me proofs," insisted de Loubersac.
"Proofs?... I have none," replied the mysterious old fellow. "But I have intuitions; better still, my confidence is grounded on a strong probability."
This statement came to de Loubersac with the force of a stunning blow: it came from one whom he considered his best agent: he knew Vagualame always weighed his words: his information was generally correct.
"We cannot continue this conversation here," he said. "To-morrow we must meet as usual—and remember—do not attempt to accost me without using the password."
"Now, how the deuce am I to know what this famous word is?" Juve asked himself. Then he had an inspiration.
"We must not use it again," he announced. "I have reason to think our customary password is known ... I will explain another time ... it is a regular story—a long one."