I greeted him frankly, offering my hand; he took it, then his hard fist fell away and he touched his cap.
“I have done what you wanted,” he said, sullenly. “I have the company’s rolls—here they are.” He dragged from his baggy trousers pockets a mass of filthy papers, closely covered with smeared writing. “Here is the money, too,” he said, fishing in the other pocket; and, to my astonishment, he produced a flattened, soiled mass of bank-notes. “Count it,” he added, calmly.
“What money is that?” I asked, taking it reluctantly.
“Didn’t you warn me to get that box—the steel box that Tric-Trac sat down on when he saw me?”
“Is that money from the box?” I exclaimed.
“Yes, m’sieu. I could not bring the box, and there had been enough blood shed over it already. Besides, when Buckhurst broke it open there was only a bit of iron for the scrap-heap left.”
I touched Speed’s arm to call his attention; the poacher shrugged his shoulders and continued: “Tric-Trac 335 made no ceremony with me; he told me that he and Buckhurst had settled this Dr. Delmont, and the other—the professor—Tavernier.”
“Murdered them?” muttered Speed.
“Dame!—the coup du Père François is murder, I suppose.”
Speed turned to me. “That’s the argot for strangling,” he said, grimly.