She said no more, for the two men were deep in confabulation.
Moche was asseverating:
“I tell you this, Paulet, we’re in for a gorgeous fine thing; don’t you imagine I’ve come to my present respectable and respected age without seeing a thing or two and learning pretty thoroughly what’s what in this world of ours! A smart customer like you, with a smart chap like me to help him, why, we’ll play some fine games together!”
Paulet agreed, smiling a well satisfied smile. But one detail still troubled him:
“The body,” he asked, “the fellow’s body ... upstairs; what’s to be done with it, eh?”
“Never you worry, Paulet, there’s more tricks than one in papa Moche’s pack, trust him for that. If you do what I tell you, the ‘cold meat’ upstairs in your passage will be fixed up, never fear, so he’ll never come back again: it’ll take a mighty clever devil to find him, I can tell you!”
“But I don’t understand,” objected Paulet.
“What’s that matter?” snapped the other.
The old scamp got up, stuffed his hands in his pockets—an ordinary enough gesture seemingly, but in reality to make sure his revolver was still safe in the inside-pocket of his breeches.
Paulet had risen, and he, too, thrust his hands in his pockets, in one of which he mechanically felt for his knife, which lay there open. All very well to have made peace, to have concluded a treaty of alliance over a bottle of wine—prudence is a virtue all the same!