the sound of a ringing slap. Next, a throaty-voiced but panting "Voyons!—ma belle!"—half-reproachful, half-indignant. Another squeal, another slap, followed by the rustle of muslin skirts in swift flight. This time the "Tiens, p'tite!" had a fierce sort of ring to it, and there was the clatter of pursuit. Out of the pantry they burst, through the salon and sallé-a-manger, where something got overturned and came down with a crash. A lap or two round the table, then out into the ante-chamber, and for a second I thought they were coming up the stairs; but no, she dodged him at the foot of the stairs, and I caught a glimpse of them—and a mighty pretty, healthy specimen of an eighteen-year-old poulette she was, and he a trim young chauffeur in maroon livery and gaiters. He chased her into the conservatory, and there I think he caught her, for there was the sound of a scuffle, a stifled squeal or two, and a couple of flower-pots coming down. Then silence, and I reached for my knife.
For it was knifework—this job ahead. No Fourteenth of July, Fall-of-the-Bastile celebration for Chu-Chu and myself. Our work had to be quick and silent; and I wondered what old Hertzfeld would think when he saw a respectable-looking, middle-aged chauffeur lying in a pool of blood in front of his safe—nothing touched—and learned later that the man was none other than the celebrated Chu-Chu, who was commonly thought to be part myth, I think. Chu-Chu had earned the name in his youth, and was trying hard to live it down by sincere and steady work of an unspectacular sort. When he felt the need of murdering somebody he
