this narrative, for
Faringhea had dealt a terrible blow at the machinations of the socius
and his friends. "You risk poisoning the doctor."

"Yes, brother; just as he ran the risk of poisoning Djalma. This morning
we set out, leaving your doctor at the inn, plunged in a deep sleep.
I was alone in the carriage with Djalma. He smoked like a true Indian;
some grains of array-mow, mixed with the tobacco in his long pipe, first
made him drowsy; a second dose, that he inhaled, sent him to sleep; and
so I left him at the inn where we stopped. Now, brother, it depends
upon me, to leave Djalma in his trance, which will last till to-morrow
evening or to rouse him from it on the instant. Exactly as you
comply with my demands or not, Djalma will or will not be in the Rue
Saint-Francois to morrow."

So saying, Faringhea drew from his pocket the medal belonging to Djalma,
and observed, as he showed it to Rodin: "You see that I tell you
the truth. During Djalma's sleep, took from him this medal, the only
indication he has of the place where he ought to be to-morrow. I finish,
then as I began: Brother, I have come to ask you for a great deal."

For some minutes, Rodin had been biting his nails to the quick, as was
his custom when seized with a fit of dumb and concentrated rage. Just
then, the bell of the porter's lodge rang three times in a particular
manner. Rodin did not appear to notice it, and yet a sudden light
sparkled in his small reptile eyes; while Faringhea, with his arms
folded, looked at him with an expression of triumph and disdainful
superiority. The socius bent down his head, remained silent for some
seconds, took mechanically a pen from his desk, and began to gnaw the
feather, as if in deep reflection upon what Faringhea had just said.
Then, throwing down the pen upon the desk, he turned suddenly towards
the half-caste, and addressed him with an air of profound contempt "Now,
really, M. Faringhea--do you think to make game of us with your cock-and
bull stories?"

Amazed, in spite of his audacity, the half-caste recoiled a step.

"What, sir!" resumed Rodin. "You come here into a respectable house,
to boast that you have stolen letters, strangled this man, drugged that
other?--Why, sir, it is downright madness. I wished to hear you to the
end, to see to what extent you would carry your audacity--for none but a
monstrous rascal would venture to plume himself on such infamous crimes.
But I prefer believing, that they