“Yes,” Bérard replied, “we must be at West Brompton at eight.”
“In that case I’m ready,” said he, rising, at the same time casting a longing look at the unfinished bottle of cognac before him. With unsteady gait he stumbled across the room, and, with the assistance of Pierre, arrayed himself in his overcoat and hat—not, however, without some difficulty and much good-humoured banter.
The other men sought their outdoor garments, and descended the stairs together, Bérard remaining behind a moment to blow out the lamp and lock the door.
A few minutes later they were strolling across Soho Square, which, at that hour, was dismal and deserted. A four-wheeled cab stood on the opposite side of the square, and they hailed it. When they had entered the conveyance, Holt gave the coachman orders to drive to the underground station at Charing Cross with all possible speed.
While passing along the more unfrequented thoroughfares the interior of the vehicle was dark, and of this Pierre and Victor took advantage. As for Chavoix, he had arrived at the drowsy state of intoxication, and quickly sank into a corner, where the rocking of the rickety old vehicle soon lulled him into a heavy slumber.
Pierre, who was seated at his side, turned and grasped his hand. First satisfying himself of the man’s unconsciousness, he slowly, and with deliberate caution, unbuttoned his overcoat. As he accomplished this without rousing him, Bérard withdrew from his pocket a card-case, a folded paper, and several other articles.
Not a word was uttered. With much dexterity Pierre also unbuttoned the black frock-coat Chavoix wore, and, diving his hand into the breast-pocket, abstracted an old morocco letter-case, with some loose cards and about half a dozen letters. Hastily glancing at these, he transferred them to his own pocket, while, at the same time, Bérard bent over and carefully substituted them for those he had just produced.
After feeling in both pockets of the sleeping man’s vest, as if to reassure himself that nothing remained, Pierre commenced to rebutton the overcoat. While so engaged Chavoix stirred uneasily and uttered a grunt, but a moment afterwards he subsided again into the dull, heavy slumber of intoxication, thus allowing the expert pickpocket to accomplish his task.
As the cab rumbled down Villiers Street, Bérard grasped him roughly by the shoulder, exclaiming in French—
“Wake up, old fellow. Come; pull yourself together.”