loaded their precious package into a carriage and drove with it
to Dumars's room, in old Chartres Street, nearby. They lugged it,
covered with a cloth, up the stairs, and deposited it on a table.
A hundred pounds it weighed, if an ounce, and at that estimate,
according to their calculation, if their daring theory were correct,
it stood there, worth twenty thousand golden dollars.

Robbins removed the covering, and opened his pocket-knife.

"_Sacré!_" muttered Dumars, shuddering. "It is the Mother of Christ.
What would you do?"

"Shut up, Judas!" said Robbins, coldly. "It's too late for you to be
saved now."

With a firm hand, he chipped a slice from the shoulder of the image.
The cut showed a dull, grayish metal, with a thin coating of gold
leaf.

"Lead!" announced Robbins, hurling his knife to the floor--"gilded!"

"To the devil with it!" said Dumars, forgetting his scruples. "I
must have a drink."

Together they walked moodily to the café of Madame Tribault, two
squares away.

It seemed that madame's mind had been stirred that day to fresh
recollections of the past services of the two young men in her
behalf.