Moncharmin took the envelope from Richard’s pocket and drew out the bank–notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it. He felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine. He put them back in the tail–pocket and pinned them with great care. Then he sat down behind Richard’s coat–tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while Richard, sitting at his writing–table, did not stir.
"A little patience, Richard," said Moncharmin. "We have only a few minutes to wait… The clock will soon strike twelve. Last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve."
"Oh, I shall have all the patience necessary!"
The time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling. Richard tried to laugh.
"I shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said. "Just now, don’t you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?"
"You’re quite right," said Moncharmin, who was really impressed.
"The ghost!" continued Richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears. "The ghost! Suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table… who talks in Box Five… who killed Joseph Buquet… who unhooked the chandelier… and who robs us! For, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you and me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor I have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost… in the ghost."
At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck.
The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears.
When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs.
"I think we can go now," said Moncharmin.
"I think so," Richard a agreed.
"Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?"
"But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST!… Well?" he asked, as Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket.
"Well, I can feel the pin."
"Of course, as you said, we can’t be robbed without noticing it."
But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed:
"I can feel the pin, but I can’t feel the notes!"
"Come, no joking, Moncharmin!… This isn’t the time for it."
"Well, feel for yourself."
Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin remained, stuck in the same place.
Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt about the witchcraft.
"The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin.
But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner.
"No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty–thousand francs!… Give me back my twenty–thousand francs!…"
"On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I swear that I haven’t got it!"
Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically, seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business–manager, exchanged a few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an unconscious movement, put the safety–pin, for which he had no further use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate…
