“Moche,” he cried, “you think you are a wonderful man who knows everything, but you are behind the fair, my friend, this time; yes, I admit, I was deeply in love with the Princess Danidoff, and I confess I was in hopes that in France, after the persevering court I paid her, she would at last consent to grant me her favours—but events have decided otherwise.”
“Poor Monsieur Ascott!” murmured M. Moche. Then he added, casting a side glance at his companion to judge of the effect of his words:
“To think that fool princess prefers a common detective to you!”
Ascott literally flew at the old villain’s throat, and shaking him by the shoulder,
“So then,” he vociferated, “so then, you know everything?”
Moche smiled quietly:
“No, not everything,” he protested, “but some little matters!... I take it the Princess Danidoff has no more brains than a sparrow, she must be out of her wits to like this low-class police spy better than you ...”
But Moche suddenly stopped dead: “I beg your pardon, but there’s someone knocking,” he exclaimed, and went to open the door, pretending to be greatly surprised.
Throwing out his arms and speaking loud enough for Ascott to hear him, he greeted the visitor warmly:
“Oh, ho! little Nini, it’s you, is it? what a stroke of luck! How is my dear sister, your good mother? d’you bring me good news?”