form. There was the bath, just as he had prepared it: the board spread
over with a sheet and laid across the bath, above which only the head
and shoulders emerged, livid and stained. One hand, the left, grasped
the edge of the board with the last convulsive clutch of supreme agony.

On the fourth finger of that hand glistened the shoddy ring which Marat
had said was not worth stealing. Yet, apparently, it roused the cupidity
of the poor wretch who had served him faithfully for these last few
days, and who now would once more be thrown, starving and friendless,
upon the streets of Paris.

Mole threw a quick, furtive glance around him. The crowd which had come
to gloat over the murdered Terrorist stood about whispering, with heads
averted, engrossed in their own affairs. He slid his hand
surreptitiously over that of the dead man. With dexterous manipulation
he lifted the finger round which glistened the metal ring. Death
appeared to have shrivelled the flesh still more upon the bones, to have
contracted the knuckles and shrunk the tendons. The ring slid off quite
easily. Mole had it in his hand, when suddenly a rough blow struck him
on the shoulder.

"Trying to rob the dead?" a stern voice shouted in his ear. "Are you a
disguised aristo, or what?"

At once the whispering ceased. A wave of excitement went round the room.
Some people shouted, others pressed forward to gaze on the abandoned
wretch who had been caught in the act of committing a gruesome deed.

"Robbing the dead!"