carefully wiped the wet place on the bill. He thought again of the
old banker in the Rue Bergere.

What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at
last led him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he
not hate his former friend? No one could say it was his fault that
Alphonse was ruined--he had shared with him honestly, and never
harmed him.

Then his thoughts tamed to Alphonse. He knew him well enough to be
sure that when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he
must have come to a jutting headland in life, and he prepared to
leap out of it rather than let disgrace reach him.

At this thought Charles sprang up. That must not be. Alphonse
should not have time to send a bullet through his bead and hide
his shame in the mixture of compassion and mysterious horror
which follows the suicide. Thus Charles would lose
his revenge, and it would be all to no purpose that he had gone
and nursed his hatred until he himself had become evil through
it. Since he had forever lost his friend, he would at least expose
his enemy, so that all should see what a miserable, despicable
being was this charming Alphonse.

He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. Charles knew the
cafe in which he would find Alphonse at this hour; he pocketed the
bill and buttoned his coat.

But on the way he would call at a police-station, and hand over
the bill to a detective, who at a sign from Charles should