The son he had described as an engineer came quickly to the bureau,
fitting together as he came the two halves of a small jemmy. He
fitted it into the top of the flap. There was a crunch, and the old
lock gave. He opened the flap, and he and M. Charolais pulled open
drawer after drawer.

"Quick! Here's that fat old fool!" said Jean, in a hoarse, hissing
whisper.

He moved down the hall, blowing out one of the lamps as he passed
it. In the seventh drawer lay a bunch of keys. M. Charolais snatched
it up, glanced at it, took a bunch of keys from his own pocket, put
it in the drawer, closed it, closed the flap, and rushed to the
window. Jean and his sons were already out on the terrace.

M. Charolais was still a yard from the window when the door into the
outer hall opened and in came M. Gournay-Martin.

He caught a glimpse of a back vanishing through the window, and
bellowed: "Hi! A man! A burglar! Firmin! Firmin!"

He ran blundering down the hall, tangled his feet in the fragments
of the broken chair, and came sprawling a thundering cropper, which
knocked every breath of wind out of his capacious body. He lay flat
on his face for a couple of minutes, his broad back wriggling
convulsively--a pathetic sight!--in the painful effort to get his
breath back. Then he sat up, and with perfect frankness burst into
tears. He sobbed and blubbered, like a small child that has hurt
itself, for three or four minutes. Then, having recovered his