It lacked but a minute of the stroke of twelve, and the revels at "The Twisted Arm"-- wild at all times, but wilder to-night than ever--were at their noisiest and most exciting pitch.

And why not?
It was not often that Margot could spend a whole night with her rapscallion crew, and she had been here since early evening--was to remain here until the dawn broke grey over the house-tops and the murmurs of the workaday world awoke anew in the streets of the populous city.

It was not often that each man and each abandoned woman present knew to a certainty that he or she would go home through the mists of the grey morning with a fistful of gold that had been won without labor or the taking of any personal risk; and to-night the half of four hundred thousand francs was to be divided among them.
No wonder they had made a carnival of it, and tricked themselves out in gala attire; no wonder they had brought a paste tiara and crowned Margot--Margot, who was in flaming red to-night, and looked a devil's daughter indeed, with her fire-like sequins and her red ankles twinkling as she threw herself into the thick of the dance and kicked, and whirled, and flung her bare arms about to the lilt of the music and the fluting of her own happy laughter.
"Per Bacco! The devil's in her to-night!" grinned old Marise, the innkeeper, from her place behind the bar, where the lid of the sewer-trap opened.

"She has not been like it since the cracksman broke with her, Toinette.

But that was before your time, _ma fille_.