"i hope," he said, "that the notes are still there?""so do i," said richard.
"the real ones?" asked moncharmin, resolved not to be "had" this time.
"look for yourself," said richard."i refuse to touch them."moncharmin took the envelope from richard's pocket and drew out the bank-notes with a trembling hand, for, this time, in order frequently to make sure of the presence of the notes, he had not sealed the envelope nor even fastened it.he felt reassured on finding that they were all there and quite genuine.
he put them back in the tail-pocket and pinned them with great care.
then he sat down behind richard's coat-tails and kept his eyes fixed on them, while richard, sitting at his writing-table, did not stir.
"a little patience, richard," said moncharmin."we have only a few minutes to wait....the clock will soon strike twelve.
last time, we left at the last stroke of twelve.""oh, i shall have all the patience necessary!"the time passed, slow, heavy, mysterious, stifling.richard tried to laugh.
"i shall end by believing in the omnipotence of the ghost," he said.
"just now, don't you find something uncomfortable, disquieting, alarming in the atmosphere of this room?""you're quite right," said moncharmin, who was really impressed.
"the ghost!" continued richard, in a low voice, as though fearing lest he should be overheard by invisible ears."the ghost! suppose, all the same, it were a ghost who puts the magic envelopes on the table...who talks in box five...who killed joseph buquet...
who unhooked the chandelier...and who robs us! for, after all, after all, after all, there is no one here except you a nd me, and, if the notes disappear and neither you nor i have anything to do with it, well, we shall have to believe in the ghost...in the ghost."at that moment, the clock on the mantlepiece gave its warning click and the first stroke of twelve struck.