LITMIR.BIZ

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dwelt upon only one word—Caldas, the name of the poor travelling agent who had killed himself.

      “At any rate,” insisted M. Patrigent, “you will confess that this girl has caused your ruin.”

      “I cannot confess that, monsieur, for it is not true.”

      “Yet she is the occasion of your extravagance. Listen.” The judge here drew a bill from the file of papers. “During December you paid her dressmaker, Van Klopen, for two walking dresses, nine hundred francs; one evening dress, seven hundred francs; one domino, trimmed with lace, four hundred francs.”

      “I spent this money cheerfully, but nevertheless I was not especially attached to her.”

      M. Patrigent shrugged his shoulders.

      “You cannot deny the evidence,” said he. “I suppose you will also say that it was not for this girl’s sake you ceased spending your evenings at M. Fauvel’s?”

      “I swear that she was not the cause of my ceasing to visit M. Fauvel’s family.”

      “Then why did you cease, suddenly, your attentions to a young lady whom you confidently expected to marry, and whose hand you had written to your father to demand for you?”

      “I had reasons which I cannot reveal,” answered Prosper with emotion.

      The judge breathed freely; at last he had discovered a vulnerable point in the prisoner’s armor.

      “Did Mlle. Madeleine banish you?”

      Prosper was silent, and seemed agitated.

      “Speak,” said M. Patrigent; “I must tell you that this circumstance is one of the most important in your case.”

      “Whatever the cost may be, on this subject I am compelled to keep silence.”

      “Beware of what you do; justice will not be satisfied with scruples of conscience.”

      M. Patrigent waited for an answer. None came.

      “You persist in your obstinacy, do you? Well, we will go on to the next question. You have, during the last year, spent fifty thousand francs. Your resources are at an end, and your credit is exhausted; to continue your mode of life was impossible. What did you intend to do?”

      “I had no settled plan. I thought it might last as long as it would, and then I——”

      “And then you would draw from the safe!”

      “Ah, monsieur, if I were guilty, I should not be here! I should never have been such a fool as to return to the bank; I should have fled.”

      M. Patrigent could not restrain a smile of satisfaction, and exclaimed:

      “Exactly the argument I expected you to use. You showed your shrewdness precisely by staying to face the storm, instead of flying the country. Several recent suits have taught dishonest cashiers that flight abroad is dangerous. Railways travel fast, but telegrams travel faster. A French thief can be arrested in London within forty-eight hours after his description has been telegraphed. Even America is no longer a refuge. You remained prudently and wisely, saying to yourself, ‘I will manage to avoid suspicion; and, even if I am found out, I shall be free again after three or five years’ seclusion, with a large fortune to enjoy.’ Many people would sacrifice five years of their lives for three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

      “But monsieur, had I calculated in the manner you describe, I should not have been content with three hundred and fifty thousand francs; I should have waited for an opportunity to steal half a million. I often have that sum in charge.”

      “Oh! it is not always convenient to wait.”

      Prosper was buried in deep thought for some minutes.

      “Monsieur,” he finally said, “there is one detail I forgot to mention before, and it may be of importance.”

      “Explain, if you please.”

      “The office messenger whom I sent to the Bank of France for the money must have seen me tie up the bundle, and put it away in the safe. At any rate, he knows that I left the bank before he did.”

      “Very well; the man shall be examined. Now you can return to your cell; and once more I advise you to consider the consequences of your persistent denial.”

      M. Patrigent thus abruptly dismissed Prosper because he wished to immediately act upon this last piece of information.

      “Sigault,” said he as soon as Prosper had left the room, “is not this Antonin the man who was excused from testifying because he sent a doctor’s certificate declaring him too ill to appear?”

      “It is, monsieur.”

      “Where doe he live?”

      “Fanferlot says he was so ill that he was taken to the hospital—the Dubois Hospital.”

      “Very well. I am going to examine him to-day, this very hour. Take your pen and paper, and send for a carriage.”

      It was some distance from the Palais de Justice to the Dubois Hospital; but the cabman, urged by the promise of a large fee, made his sorry jades fly as if they were blooded horses.

      Would Antonin be able to answer any questions?

      The physician in charge of the hospital said that, although the man suffered horribly from a broken knee, his mind was perfectly clear.

      “That being the case, monsieur,” said the judge, “I wish to examine him, and desire that no one be admitted while he makes his deposition.”

      “Oh! you will not be intruded upon, monsieur; his room contains four beds, but they are just now unoccupied.”

      When Antonin saw the judge enter, followed by a little weazened man in black, with a portfolio under his arm, he at once knew what he had come for.

      “Ah,” he said, “monsieur comes to see me about M. Bertomy’s case?”

      “Precisely.”

      M. Patrigent remained standing by the sick-bed while Sigault arranged his papers on a little table.

      In answer to the usual questions, the messenger swore that he was named Antonin Poche, was forty years old, born at Cadaujac (Gironde), and was unmarried.

      “Now,” said the judge, “are you well enough to clearly answer any questions I may put?”

      “Certainly, monsieur.”

      “Did you, on the 27th of February, go to the Bank of France for the three hundred and fifty thousand francs that were stolen?”

      “Yes, monsieur.”

      “At what hour did you return with the money?”

      “It must have been five o’clock when I got back.”

      “Do you remember what M. Bertomy did when you handed him the notes? Now, do not be in a hurry; think before you answer.”

      “Let me see: first he counted the notes, and made them into four packages; then he put them in the safe; and then—it seems to me—and then he locked the safe; and, yes, I am not mistaken, he went out!”

      He uttered these last words so quickly, that, forgetting his knee, he half started up, but, with a cry of pain, sank back in bed.

      “Are you sure of what you say?” asked the judge.

      M. Patrigent’s solemn tone seemed to frighten Antonin.

      “Sure?” he replied with marked hesitation, “I would bet my head on it, yet I am not sure!”

      It was impossible for him to be more decided in his answers. He had been frightened. He already imagined himself in difficulty, and for a trifle would have retracted everything.

      But the effect was already produced; and when they retired M. Patrigent said to Sigault:

      “This

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