“The robbery,” continued du Portail, “was audaciously committed in the daytime; and no sooner did Charles Crochard get possession of the casket than he went to the church of Saint-Sulpice, where he had an appointment with an accomplice, who, being supplied with a passport, was to start immediately with the diamonds for foreign parts.  It so chanced that on entering the church, instead of meeting the man he expected, who was a trifle late, Charles Crochard came face to face with a celebrated agent of the detective force, who was well known to him, inasmuch as the young rascal was not at his first scrimmage with the police.  The absence of his accomplice, this encounter with the detective, and, lastly, a rapid movement made by the latter, by the merest chance, toward the door, induced the robber to fancy he was being watched.  Losing his head under this idea, he wanted, at any cost, to put the casket out of his possession, knowing that if arrested, as he expected, at the door of the church, it would be a damning proof against him.  Catching sight at that moment of Toupillier, who was then the giver of holy water, ‘My man,’ said he, making sure that no one overheard their colloquy, ’will you take care of this little package for me?  It is a box of lace.  I am going near by to a countess who is slow to pay her bill; and if I have the lace with me she’ll want to see it, for it is a new style, and she’ll ask me to leave it with her on credit, instead of paying the bill; therefore I don’t want to take it.  But,’ he added, ’be sure not to touch the paper that wraps the box, for there’s nothing harder than to do up a package in the same folds—­’”

“The booby!” cried Cerizet, naively; “why, that very caution would make the man want to open it.”

“You are an able casuist,” said du Portail.  “Well, an hour later, Charles Crochard, finding that nothing happened to him, returned to the church to obtain his deposit, but Toupillier was no longer there.  You can imagine the anxiety with which Charles Crochard attended early mass the next day, and approached the giver of holy water, who was there, sure enough, attending to his functions.  But night, they say, brings counsel; the worthy beggar audaciously declared that he had received no package, and did not know what his interlocutor meant.”

“And there was no possibility of arguing with him, for that would be exposure,” remarked Cerizet, who was not far from sympathizing in a trick so boldly played.

“No doubt,” resumed du Portail; “the robbery was already noised about, and Toupillier, who was a very able fellow, had calculated that Charles Crochard would not dare to publicly accuse him, for that would reveal the theft.  In fact, on his trial Charles Crochard never said a word of his mishap, and during the six years he spent at the galleys (he was condemned to ten, but four were remitted) he did not open his lips to a single soul about the treachery of which he had been a victim.”