LITMIR.BIZ

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he replied that he was very fond of Prosper, was once very intimate with him, and had always regarded him as a strictly honorable man, incapable of doing anything unbecoming a gentleman.

      He declared that he could not imagine what fatal circumstances could have induced Prosper to commit a theft. He knew he played cards, but not to the extent that was reported. He had never known him to indulge in expenses beyond his means.

      In regard to his cousin Madeleine, he replied:

      “I always thought that Prosper was in love with Madeleine, and, until yesterday, I was certain he would marry her, knowing that my father would not oppose their marriage. I have always attributed the discontinuance of Prosper’s visits to a quarrel with my cousin, but supposed they would end by becoming reconciled.”

      This information, more than that of M. Fauvel, threw light upon Prosper’s past life, but did not apparently reveal any evidence which could be used in the present state of affairs.

      Lucien signed his deposition, and withdrew.

      Cavaillon’s turn for examination came next. The poor fellow was in a pitiable state of mind when he appeared before the judge.

      Having, as a great secret, confided to a friend his adventure with the detective, and being jeered at for his cowardice in giving up the note, he felt great remorse, and passed the night in reproaching himself for having ruined Prosper.

      He endeavored to repair, as well as he could, what he called his treason.

      He did not exactly accuse M. Fauvel, but he courageously declared that he was the cashier’s friend, and that he was as sure of his innocence as he was of his own.

      Unfortunately, besides his having no proofs to strengthen his assertions, these were deprived of any value by his violent professions of friendship for the accused.

      After Cavaillon, six or eight clerks of the Fauvel bank successively defiled in the judge’s office; but their depositions were nearly all insignificant.

      One of them, however, stated a fact which the judge carefully noted. He said he knew that Prosper had speculated on the Bourse through the medium of M. Raoul de Lagors, and had gained immense sums.

      Five o’clock struck before the list of witnesses summoned for the day was exhausted. But the task of M. Patrigent was not yet finished. He rang for his bailiff, who instantly appeared, and said to him:

      “Go at once, and bring Fanferlot here.”

      It was some time before the detective answered the summons. Having met a colleague on the gallery, he thought it his duty to treat him to a drink; and the bailiff had found it necessary to bring him from the little inn at the corner.

      “How is it that you keep people waiting?” said the judge, when he entered bowing and scraping. Fanferlot bowed more profoundly still.

      Despite his smiling face, he was very uneasy. To prosecute the Bertomy case alone, it required a double play that might be discovered at any moment; to manage at once the cause of justice and his own ambition, he ran great risks, the least of which was the losing of his place.

      “I have a great deal to do,” he said, to excuse himself, “and have not wasted any time.”

      And he began to give a detailed account of his movements. He was embarrassed, for he spoke with all sorts of restrictions, picking out what was to be said, and avoiding what was to be left unsaid. Thus he gave the history of Cavaillon’s letter, which he handed to the judge; but he did not breathe a word of Madeleine. On the other hand, he gave biographical details, very minute indeed, of Prosper and Mme. Gypsy, which he had collected from various quarters during the day.

      As he progressed the conviction of M. Patrigent was strengthened.

      “This young man is evidently guilty,” he said. Fanferlot did not reply; his opinion was different, but he was delighted that the judge was on the wrong track, thinking that his own glory would thereby be the greater when he discovered the real culprit. True, this grand discovery was as far off as it had ever been; but Fanferlot was hopeful.

      After hearing all he had to tell, the judge dismissed Fanferlot, telling him to return the next day.

      “Above all,” he said, as Fanferlot left the room, “do not lose sight of the girl Gypsy; she must know where the money is, and can put us on the track.”

      Fanferlot smiled cunningly.

      “You may rest easy about that, monsieur; the lady is in good hands.”

      Left to himself, although the evening was far advanced, M. Patrigent continued to busy himself with the case, and to arrange that the rest of the depositions should be made.

      This case had actually taken possession of his mind; it was, at the same time, puzzling and attractive. It seemed to be surrounded by a cloud of mystery, and he determined to penetrate and dispel it.

      The next morning he was in his office much earlier than usual. On this day he examined Mme. Gypsy, recalled Cavaillon, and sent again for M. Fauvel. For several days he displayed the same activity.

      Of all the witnesses summoned, only two failed to appear.

      One was the office-boy sent by Prosper to bring the money from the city bank; he was ill from a fall.

      The other was M. Raoul de Lagors.

      But their absence did not prevent the file of papers relating to Prosper’s case from daily increasing; and on the ensuing Monday, five days after the robbery, M. Patrigent thought he held in his hands enough moral proof to crush the accused.

      V

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      While his whole past was the object of the most minute investigations, Prosper was in prison, in a secret cell.

      The two first days had not appeared very long.

      He had requested, and been granted, some sheets of paper, numbered, which he was obliged to account for; and he wrote, with a sort of rage, plans of defence and a narrative of justification.

      The third day he began to be uneasy at not seeing anyone except the condemned prisoners who were employed to serve those confined in secret cells, and the jailer who brought him his food.

      “Am I not to be examined again?” he would ask.

      “Your turn is coming,” the jailer invariably answered.

      Time passed; and the wretched man, tortured by the sufferings of solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit, sank into the depths of despair.

      “Am I to stay here forever?” he moaned.

      No, he was not forgotten; for on Monday morning, at one o’clock, an hour when the jailer never came, he heard the heavy bolt of his cell pushed back.

      He ran toward the door.

      But the sight of a gray-headed man standing on the sill rooted him to the spot.

      “Father,” he gasped, “father!”

      “Your father, yes!”

      Prosper’s astonishment at seeing his father was instantly succeeded by a feeling of great joy.

      A father is one friend upon whom we can always rely. In the hour of need, when all else fails, we remember this man upon whose knees we sat when children, and who soothed our sorrows; and although he can in no way assist us, his presence alone comforts and strengthens.

      Without reflecting, Prosper, impelled by tender feeling, was about to throw himself on his father’s bosom.

      M. Bertomy harshly repulsed him.

      “Do not approach me!” he exclaimed.

      He then advanced into the cell, and closed the door. The father and son were alone together,

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