“This one is the eternal father of all assassins,” growled Toto.  “He talked of walling me up alive.”

“That was only a joke, to frighten you into holding your tongue,” said Gigi.  “And you did.”

“A fine joke!  I wish you had been down there, hiding beside the gold statue instead of me, while two murderers sat by the little hole above and talked of walling it up for a week or ten days!  A fine joke.  The joke the cat makes to the mouse before eating it!”

“I can tell the Princess that the money must be sent In thousand-franc notes,” said Gigi, who was not listening.  “It cannot go to the post-office registered, because it must be addressed to a false name.  Somebody must bring it to us.”

“And bring the police to catch us at the same time,” suggested Toto contemptuously.  “That will not do.”

“She must bring it herself, to a safe place.”

“How?”

“For instance, I can write that she must take a cab and drive out of the city on the Via Appia, and drive, and drive, until she meets two men—­they will be you and me—­one with a red handkerchief hanging out of his coat pocket, and the other with an old green riband for a band to his hat.  I have an old green riband that will do.  She must come alone in the cab.  If we see any one with her, she shall not see us.  She will not know how far out we shall be, so she cannot send the police to the place.  It may be one mile from the gate, or five.  I will write that if she does not come alone, the story will be printed in all the papers the next morning.”

Toto now looked at his friend with something almost like admiration.

“I did not know that you had been a brigand,” he remarked pleasantly.  “That is well thought.  Only the Princess may not be able to get the money, and if she does, she had better bring it in gold.  We will then go to America.”

Neither of the men had the least idea that a hundred thousand francs in gold would be an uncommonly awkward and heavy load to carry.  They supposed it would go into their pockets.

“If she does not come, we will try the Senator before we publish the story,” said Gigi.  “By that time we shall have been able to think of some way of putting him under the oil-press to squeeze the gold out of him.”

“In any case, this is a good affair,” Toto concluded, filling his pipe.  “Nothing is bad which ends well, and we may both be gentlemen in America before long.”

So the two ruffians disposed of poor little Sabina’s reputation in the reeking wine shop, very much to their own imaginary advantage; and the small yellow-and-blue clouds from their stinking pipes circled up slowly through the gloom into the darkness above their heads, as the light failed in the narrow street outside.

Then Gigi, the carpenter, bought two sheets of paper and an envelope, and a pen and a wretched little bottle of ink, and a stamp, all at the small tobacconist’s at the corner of Via della Scrofa, and went to Toto’s lodging to compose his letter, because Toto lived alone, and there were no women in the house.