While burning these papers on which Caffie had written “2,000 francs,” he tried to think of a place of concealment.

As he threw a glance around him, asking from things the inspiration that his brain did not furnish, he caught sight of the letter he had just received, and it suggested an idea.  Duphot was at Monaco to play.  Why should he not go also, and play?

Having neither relatives nor friends from whom he could procure a certain sum, his only resource was to make it at play; and in his desperate position, known to every one, nothing was more natural than this experiment.  He had received two hundred francs, which would not save him from his creditors.  He would risk them at roulette at Monaco.  Whether he lost or won was of little consequence.  He would have played that would be sufficient.  He would be seen playing.  Who would know whether he lost or won?  From Monaco he would pay Jardine by telegraph, out of the five thousand Louis, which would be more than sufficient for that; and, when he returned to Paris, he would free himself from his other creditors with what remained.

The money affair decided—­and it seemed to him cleverly settled—­did not include the bank-notes, which, spread out before his eyes, disturbed him.  What should he do with them?  One moment he thought of burning them, but reflection held him back.  Would it not be folly to destroy this fortune?  In any case, would it not be the work of a narrow mind, of one not fertile in resources?

In trying to think of some safe place to hide the banknotes, one thought continually absorbed him:  What was happening in the Rue Sainte-Anne?  Had any one discovered the dead man?

He should be there to observe events, instead of timidly shutting himself up in his office.

For several minutes he tried to resist this thought, but it was stronger than his will or his reason.  So much was he under its power that he could do nothing.

Willing or unwilling, foolish or not, he must go to the Rue Sainte-Anne.

He washed his hands, changed his shirt, and throwing the notes and gold into a drawer, he went out.

He knew very well that there was a certain danger in leaving these proofs of the crime, which, found in an official search, would overwhelm him, without his being able to defend himself.  But he thought that an immediate search was unlikely to occur, and if he could not make a probable story, it would be better for him not to reason about it.  It was a risk that he ran, but how much he had on his side!

He hastened along the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, but on approaching the Rue Sainte-Anne he slackened his steps, looking about him and listening.  Nothing unusual struck him.  Even when he turned into the Rue Sainte-Anne he found it bore its ordinary aspect.  A few passers-by, not curious; no groups on the sidewalk; no shopkeepers at their doors.  Nothing was different from usual.