Theodore woke at nine o’clock.  He struggled like a fool, but he still appeared half dazed.  No doubt he thought that he was dreaming.  Then I sat down on the edge of the bed and cut myself off a large piece of the pie.  I ate it with marked relish in front of Theodore, whose eyes nearly started out of their sockets.  Then I brewed myself a cup of coffee.  The mingled odour of coffee and garlic filled the room.  It was delicious.  I thought that Theodore would have a fit.  The veins stood out on his forehead and a kind of gurgle came from behind the scarf round his mouth.  Then I told him he could partake of the pie and coffee if he told me what he had done with the bracelet.  He shook his head furiously, and I left the pie, the cognac and the coffee on the table before him and went into the antechamber, closing the office door behind me, and leaving him to meditate on his treachery.

What I wanted to avoid above everything was the traitor meeting M. Jean Duval.  He had the bracelet—­of that I was as convinced as that I was alive.  But what could he do with a piece of false jewellery?  He could not dispose of it, save to a vendor of theatrical properties, who no doubt was well acquainted with the trinket and would not give more than a couple of francs for what was obviously stolen property.  After all, I had promised Theodore twenty francs; he would not be such a fool as to sell that birthright for a mess of pottage and the sole pleasure of doing me a bad turn.

There was no doubt in my mind that he had put the thing away somewhere in what he considered a safe place pending a reward being offered by Mlle. Mars for the recovery of the bracelet.  The more I thought of this the more convinced I was that that was, indeed, his proposed plan of action—­oh, how I loathed the blackleg!—­and mine henceforth would be to dog his every footstep and never let him out of my sight until I forced him to disgorge his ill-gotten booty.

At ten o’clock M. Jean Duval arrived, as was his wont, supercilious and brusque as usual.  I was just explaining to him that I hoped to have excellent news for him after the next performance of Le Reve when there was a peremptory ring at the bell.  I went to open the door, and there stood a police inspector in uniform with a sheaf of papers in his hand.

Now, I am not over-fond of our Paris police; they poke their noses in where they are least wanted.  Their incompetence favours the machinations of rogues and frustrates the innocent ambitions of the just.  However, in this instance the inspector looked amiable enough, though his manner, I must say, was, as usual, unpleasantly curt.

“Here, Ratichon,” he said, “there has been an impudent theft of a valuable bracelet out of Mademoiselle Mars’ dressing-room at the Theatre Royal last night.  You and your mate frequent all sorts of places of ill-fame; you may hear something of the affair.”

I chose to ignore the insult, and the inspector detached a paper from the sheaf which he held and threw it across the table to me.