tipped far back in his chair and laughed uproariously, attracting attention from the others at adjoining tables.
Perdeau talked loudly, wildly. But occasionally he would lower his voice to a whisper as he covertly displayed the gun he carried and boasted of the extra money for brandy he would soon obtain.
And as the hour drew to an end, Perdeau had another idea. An idea that would even further insure Mortain's meeting with the guillotine. He rose, pushing his chair over with a clatter.
"I mus' go!" he announced loudly, drunkenly.
"No, no, Cheri!" the slattern shrilled, rising to detain him.
"I have other women to see, pig," Perdeau snarled. "Other women much prettier than you!" He made his voice purposely loud. It was with satisfaction that he heard the sniggers from the tables near to them.
The slattern's red face grew lobster red, then death white in swift rage. She stood there, splutteringly searching for words.
"Other and prettier women, pig!" Perdeau repeated loudly. Then he wheeled, staggering away from the cafe and down the street. Behind him he could hear the shrill cries of rage and indignation from the red-mouthed trollop. It was perfect. There was now a woman scorned to confront Mortain at his trial.
The streets were darker and less dearly lighted as Perdeau moved on to the little cobbler's shop. They were also, he noted with satisfaction, almost completely deserted.
At length he turned down a narrow little side street and found himself in front of the tiny shop he sought. A glance through the window showed Perdeau that the bent, white-haired little cobbler was hard at work in the front of his store. His wife was probably in the back. Perdeau stepped around to the door and pushed against it. It was locked. Perdeau pounded on the window pane and the old man looked up from his work.
The old cobbler came around to the door and opened it, peering out at Perdeau.
"Is there something I can do for you?" he asked.
Perdeau shoved roughly past him and into the shop. He had brought forth his revolver, and now he waved it at the frightened old fellow.
"You can give me all your money," he rasped, "and quickly!"
The old man's face was a white mask of terror.
"I have nothing," he quavered, "nothing at all. I swear I have nothing. Please!"
Perdeau heard someone stirring in the back of the shop. The old man's wife would be bustling out in a moment. He stepped under the clear bald illumination of the central light in the store.
"Then you can take this, as a present, from me!" he snarled.
His revolver barked four times in the silence. The old man rose on his toes, clutching at his chest, then pitched forward dead.
THE old woman entered from the rear of the store in time to see her husband topple to the floor. She screamed in terror, gazing in stark horror at Perdeau, and Mortain's features. Then she was babbling in frenzied grief, sobbing wildly and trying to roll her husband over on his back. Perdeau laughed wildly.
"There, old woman. When you meet him in the hereafter, tell him not to hold out on people—especially Mortain!" She would recall that name later, even though it scarcely registered now,
