You can hear them open the closet door. They're probably going to hide there. It sounds as if they're creeping around the desk. The floor's creaking. Someone's bumping into a piece of furniture. Someone else's profile is silhouetted against the window. Screams of laughter. Sighs. Frantic gestures. They must be running in all directions. "I've got you, Baruzzi!" "Tough luck, I'm Helder." "Who's there?" "Guess!" "Rosenheim?" "No." "Costachesco?" "No." "Give up?" "We'll arrest them tonight," declares the Khedive. "The Lieutenant and every member of the ring. EVERY LAST ONE. Those people are sabotaging our work." "You still haven't given us Lamballe's address," murmurs Mr. Philibert. "When are you going to make up your mind, son? Come on now…" "Give him a chance, Pierrot." Suddenly the lights are on. They blink their eyes. There they are around the desk. "I'm parched." "Let's have a drink, friends, a drink!" "A song, Baruzzi, a song!" "Il était un petit navire." "Go on, Baruzzi, g o on!" "Qui n'avait ja-ja-ja-ja-mais navigué…" "Want to see my tattoos?" inquires Frau Sultana.
