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Thither went Robbins and Dumars, and were admitted through the narrow doorway in the blank stone wall that frowned upon Bonhomme Street. An old woman was sweeping the chapel. She told them that Sister Félicité, the head of the order, was then at prayer at the altar in the alcove. In a few moments she would emerge. Heavy, black curtains screened the alcove. They waited.
You might's well, M'sieur Dumars, go try find those money in those statue of Virgin Mary that M'sieur Morin present at those p'tite soeurs, as try find one femme." At Madame Tibault's last words, Robbins started slightly and cast a keen, sidelong glance at Dumars. The Creole sat, unmoved, dreamily watching the spirals of his cigarette smoke.
What you come bidding against me for?" "I thought I was the only fool in the crowd," explained Robbins. No one else bidding, the statue was knocked down to the syndicate at their last offer. Dumars remained with the prize, while Robbins hurried forth to wring from the resources and credit of both the price.
Madame Tibault, fat and indulgent, presides at the desk, and takes your money. Nicolette and Mémé, madame's nieces, in charming bib aprons, bring the desirable beverages. Dumars, with true Creole luxury, was sipping his absinthe, with half-closed eyes, in a swirl of cigarette smoke.
He was never even a spectator at the races. Not that kind of a man. Surprised the gentlemen should ask. "Shall we throw it up?" suggested Robbins, "and let the puzzle department have a try?" "Cherchez la femme," hummed Dumars, reaching for a match. "Try the Little Sisters of What-d'-you-call-'em." It had developed, during the investigation, that Mr.
"Don't believe I recognize you. Your buggy's waiting for you, ain't it?" And Ben Price turned and strolled down the street. Robbins, reporter for the Picayune, and Dumars, of L'Abeille the old French newspaper that has buzzed for nearly a century were good friends, well proven by years of ups and downs together.
Some weeks before his death, Mr. Therefore, Mr. Morin's memory seemed doomed to bear the cloud of dishonesty, while madame was, of course, disconsolate. Then it was that Robbins and Dumars, representing their respective journals, began one of those pertinacious private investigations which, of late years, the press has adopted as a means to glory and the satisfaction of public curiosity.
"Cherchez la femme," said Dumars. "That's the ticket!" agreed Robbins. "All roads lead to the eternal feminine. We will find the woman." They exhausted the knowledge of the staff of Mr. Morin's hotel, from the bell-boy down to the proprietor. They gently, but inflexibly, pumped the family of the deceased as far as his cousins twice removed.
"Three-fifty," spoke up the other, in a louder voice a voice that sent Robbins diving suddenly through the crowd in its direction, to catch Dumars, its owner, ferociously by the collar. "You unconverted idiot!" hissed Robbins, close to his ear "pool!" "Agreed!" said Dumars, coolly. "I couldn't raise three hundred and fifty dollars with a search-warrant, but I can stand half.
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