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He struck his forehead and said: "Did she think that I could do such a thing!...But, of course she would. Imbecile that I am!" Madame Andermatt was now revived. Daspry took from his pocket a small package exactly similar to the one that Mon. Andermatt had carried away. "Here are your letters, Madame. These are the genuine letters." "But....the others?"
Then he pushed the bewildered Varin through the door. "Daspry! Daspry!" I cried, pushing aside the curtain. He ran to me. "What? What's the matter?" "Madame Andermatt is ill." He hastened to her, caused her to inhale some salts, and, while caring for her, questioned me: "Well, what did it?" "The letters of Louis Lacombe that you gave to her husband."
Andermatt is willing or not, he will be, henceforth, our collaborator in the work we have undertaken." Daspry and I were dining together on the day on which that announcement appeared.
Daspry gave little thought to the other two cards; he devoted all his attention to another problem which he considered more urgent; he was seeking the famous hiding-place. "And who knows," said he, "I may find the letters that Salvator did not find by inadvertence, perhaps.
In exchange, the letters. So, after dinner, I hastened here." "Unknown to your husband?" "Yes." "What do you think about it?" asked Daspry, turning to me. "I think as you do, that Mon. Andermatt is one of the invited guests." "Yes, but for what purpose?" "That is what we are going to find out." I led the men to a large room.
That little iron plate was the exact size of a playing-card, and the red spots, made with red lead, were arranged upon it in a manner similar to the seven-of-hearts, and each spot was pierced with a round hole similar to the perforations in the two playing cards. "Listen, Daspry, I have had enough of this. You can stay if it interests you. But I am going."
"No idle words, monsieur, if you please. You have merely to sign." The banker took out his fountain pen, filled out the check and signed it. Varin held out his hand for it. "Put down your hand," said Daspry, "there is something more." Then, to the banker, he said: "You asked for some letters, did you not?" "Yes, a package of letters." "Where are they, Varin?" "I haven't got them."
Jean Daspry that delightful, heedless Daspry who, six months later, was killed in such a tragic manner on the frontier of Morocco Jean Daspry and I returned on foot through the dark, warm night. When we arrived in front of the little house in which I had lived for a year at Neuilly, on the boulevard Maillot, he said to me: "Are you afraid?" "What an idea!"
"I have the originals." "How much do you want for them?" "One hundred thousand francs." "You are crazy," said Daspry. "Why, the major gave you only twenty thousand, and that was like money thrown into the sea, as the boat was a failure at the preliminary trials." "They didn't understand the plans." "The plans are not complete." "Then, why do you ask me for them?" "Because I want them.
She hesitated; was on the point of speaking, but, finally, remained silent. Daspry continued: "I presume that is why your husband has kept a close watch over their movements instead of informing the police. He hoped to recover the papers and, at the same time, that compromising article which has enabled the two brothers to hold over him threats of exposure and blackmail." "Over him, and over me."
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