When the door of the managers' office shuts behind M. le Commissaire, they breathe two identical sighs.
"My nerves can't take much more of this."
"Your nerves?" demands Moncharmin without opening his eyes. "What about my nerves, with you thundering at me?"
"You're not the one who's had his pocket picked." Richard stands over his partner, glowering.
"By a ghost?"
"By someone."
"Really, my dear." With an air of immense fatigue, Moncharmin lifts a hand and tucks it into Richard's back pocket once more. "If it were me, don't you think you would have noticed? --Kiss me."
Richard sighs, relenting.