emoving Benham began to look rather
imperative again, but from a different point of view. Francois had of
late worked for his living, a mode of existence which seemed to him
anomalous, and ill suited to his genius. Five hundred pounds meant, to a
man of his frugal habits and tact in eliciting hospitality three years'
comfortable idleness. It was no doubt apparent now that Benham had
already parted with his secret, and that, if anything happened to him,
the secret would still remain to vex the good Medland. Gaspard regretted
this; he would have liked to combine public and private advantage in the
job. But a man must not ask everything, or he may end by having to take
nothing. Here sat a drunken fool with five hundred pounds; opposite to
him sat a sober sharp-wit with only five. The situation was full of
suggestion. If the five hundred could be got from the fool without
violence, well and good; but really, thought Mr. Gaspard, their
transference to the sharp-wit must be effected somehow, or that
sharp-wit had no title to the name.

"Care to play any more?" asked Benham.

"Not I, my friend, I have robbed you enough."

"And about time for the luck to turn, isn't it? Well, I don't care! What
shall we do?"

"What you will," answered the Frenchman absently.

Benham pulled his beard, then leant forward and put a question with an
intoxicated leer. A laugh of feigned reproof burst from Gaspard. Benham
seemed to urge him, and at last he said,

"Oh, if you're bent on it, I can be your guide."

The two men left the house arm-in-arm, went down the street, and crossed
Digby Square. It was late, and few people were about, but Gaspard saw
one acquaintance. The doorkeeper was strolling along on his way home,
and Gaspard bade him good-night in a cheery voice as they passed him.
The doorkeeper stood and watched the pair for a minute as they left the
Square and turned down a narrow street which led to the poorer part of
the town, and thence to the quays. He heard Gaspard's high-pitched voice
and shrill laughter, and, in answer, Benham's thick tones and heavy
shout of drunken mirth. Once or twice these sounds repeated themselves,
then they ceased; the footsteps of the Frenchman and his companion died
away in the distance. The doorkeeper went on his way, thinking with
relief that Mr. Gaspard, for all his tall talk, was more at home with a
bottle than with a knife or a bomb.

Notwithstanding his dissipation, Gaspard was afoot very ear