Oh, I think we can fairly count Mr. Monk
and his friends in on this coup!"
"I am sure of it," said Eve de Montalais. "But Albert: is he one of
them, their employee or confrere?"
"Dupont? I fancy not. I may be wrong, but I believe he is entirely on
his own--quite independent of the Monk party."
"But his attack on us at Montpellier, and later on you here, coming at
about the same time as their visit--"
"Coincidence, if you ask me. The weight of probability is against any
collusion between the two parties."
"Please explain..."
"Dupont is an Apache of Paris. The language he used to me when we
fought in that carriage at Montpellier was the slang of the lowest
order of Parisian criminal, used spontaneously, under stress of great
excitement, with no intent to mislead. These other people were--if
anything but poor misjudged lambs--swell mobsmen, the elite of the
criminal world. The two castes never work together because they can't
trust each other. The swell mobsman works with his head and only kills
when cornered. The Apache kills first, as a matter of instinct, and
then thinks--to the best of his ability.
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