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. He soon returned with the money, and the two musketeers 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 pocketknife.
“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 Tibault, 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.
