At that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and
the first stroke of twelve struck.
The two managers shuddered. The perspiration streamed from their
foreheads. The twelfth stroke sounded strangely in their ears.
When the clock stopped, they gave a sigh and rose from their chairs.
"I think we can go now," said Moncharmin.
"I think so," Richard a agreed.
"Before we go, do you mind if I look in your pocket?"
"But, of course, Moncharmin, YOU MUST! ... Well?" he asked, as
Moncharmin was feeling at the pocket.
"Well, I can feel the pin."
"Of course, as you said, we can't be robbed without noticing it."
But Moncharmin, whose hands were still fumbling, bellowed: "I can feel the pin, but I can't feel the notes!"
"Come, no joking, Moncharmin! ... This isn't the time for it."
"Well, feel for yourself."
Richard tore off his coat. The two managers turned the pocket inside
out. THE POCKET WAS EMPTY. And the curious thing was that the pin
remained, stuck in the same place.
Richard and Moncharmin turned pale. There was no longer any doubt
about the witchcraft.
"The ghost!" muttered Moncharmin.
But Richard suddenly sprang upon his partner.
"No one but you has touched my pocket! Give me back my twenty-thousand
francs! ... Give me back my twenty-thousand francs! ..."
"On my soul," sighed Moncharmin, who was ready to swoon, "on my soul, I
swear that I haven't got it!"
Then somebody knocked at the door. Moncharmin opened it automatically,
seemed hardly to recognize Mercier, his business-manager, exchanged a
few words with him, without knowing what he was saying and, with an
unconscious movement, put the safety-pin, for which he had no further
use, into the hands of his bewildered subordinate ...