IV

THE INFERNAL TRAP

When the race was over, a crowd of people, streaming toward the exit
from the grand stand, pushed against Nicolas Dugrival. He brought his
hand smartly to the inside pocket of his jacket.

"What's the matter?" asked his wife.

"I still feel nervous ... with that money on me! I'm afraid of some
nasty accident."

She muttered:

"And I can't understand you. How can you think of carrying such a sum
about with you? Every farthing we possess! Lord knows, it cost us
trouble enough to earn!"

"Pooh!" he said. "No one would guess that it is here, in my
pocket-book."

"Yes, yes," she grumbled. "That young man-servant whom we discharged
last week knew all about it, didn't he, Gabriel?"

"Yes, aunt," said a youth standing beside her.

Nicolas Dugrival, his wife and his nephew Gabriel were well-known
figures at the race-meetings, where the regular frequenters saw them
almost every day: Dugrival, a big, fat, red-faced man, who looked as if
he knew how to enjoy life; his wife, also built on heavy lines, with a
coarse, vulgar face, and always dressed in a plum-coloured silk much the
worse for wear; the nephew, quite young, slender, with pale features,
dark eyes and fair and rather curly hair.

As a rule, the couple remained seated throughout the afternoon. It was
Gabriel who betted for his uncle, watching the horses in the paddock,
picking up tips to right and left among the jockeys and stable-lads,
running backward and forward between the stands and the _pari-mutuel_.

Luck had favoured them that day, for, three times, Dugrival's neighbours
saw the young man come back and hand him money.

The fifth race was just finishing. Dugrival lit a cigar. At that moment,
a gentleman in a tight-fitting brown suit, with a face ending in a
peaked gray beard, came up to him and asked, in a confidential whisper:

"Does this happen to belong to you, sir?"

And he displayed a gold watch and chain.

Dugrival gave a start:

"Why, yes ... it's mine.... Look, here are my initials, N. G.: Nicolas
Dugrival!"

And he at once, with a movement of terror, clapped his hand to his
jacket-pocket. The note-case was still there.

"Ah," he said, greatly relieved, "that's a piece of luck!... But, all
the same, how on earth was it done?... Do you know the scoundrel?"

"Yes, we've got him locked up. Pray come with me and we'll soon look
into the matter."

"Whom have I the honour ...?"

"M. Delangle, detective-in