in French; and now and then we caught the sound of stifled laughter.
We opened the door. 'Est-il drôle, donc, ce vieux?' the man's voice was saying.
'C'est à mourir de rire,' Césarine's voice responded.
We burst in upon them, red-handed.
Césarine's young man rose, with his hat in his hand, in a respectful attitude. It reminded me at once of Medhurst, as he stood talking his first day at Marvillier's to Charles; and also of the little curate, in his humblest moments as the disinterested pastor.
With a sign to me to do likewise, Charles laid his hand firmly on the young man's shoulder. I looked in the fellow's face: there could be no denying it; Césarine's young man was Paul Finglemore, our broker's brother.
'Paul Finglemore,' Charles said severely, 'otherwise Cuthbert Clay, I arrest you on several charges of theft and conspiracy!'
The young man glanced around him. He was surprised and perturbed; but, even so, his inexhaustible coolness never once deserted him. 'What, five to one?' he said, counting us over. 'Has law and order come down to this? Five respectable rascals to arrest one poor beggar of a chevalier d'industrie! Why, it's worse than New York. There, it was only you and me, you know, old Ten per Cent!'
'Hold his hands, Simpson!' Charles cried, trembling lest his enemy should escape him.
