“Are they still genuine, Richard?”

“Yes, they are still genuine!”

Above their heads, Mame Giry’s three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this leitmotif:

“I, a thief!⁠ ⁠… I, a thief, I?”

She choked with rage. She shouted:

“I never heard of such a thing!”

And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again.

“In any case,” she yelped, “you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!”

“I?” asked Richard, astounded. “And how should I know?”