LITMIR.BIZ

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have been settled long ago. But he seems to know you.’

      ‘I never saw him till I saw him here.’

      ‘Don’t be too sure of that, for he is a master of disguises.’

      This time Prosper did not have to wait upon the wooden bench. M. Patrigent had arranged for his examination to immediately follow his interview with his father, with the object of getting the truth from him while his nerves were still vibrating with emotion.

      The magistrate was, therefore, very surprised at the cashier’s proud and resolute attitude.

      The first question was:

      ‘Have you reflected?’

      ‘Being innocent,’ Prosper replied, ‘I have nothing on which to reflect.’

      ‘Ah,’ the magistrate said, ‘you forget that sincerity and repentance are necessary to obtain lenient treatment.’

      ‘I have need, sir, neither of pardon or leniency.’

      ‘How would you answer,’ the magistrate resumed, ‘if I told you what had become of the money?’

      Prosper shook his head sadly. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I should not be here.’

      The ordinary method of examination employed by the magistrate often succeeds, but it did not do so in this case.

      ‘Then you persist in accusing your employer?’

      ‘Either him or someone else.’

      ‘Excuse me, it could only be he. No one else knew the word. Had he any reason to rob himself?’

      ‘I know of none, sir.’

      ‘Ah, well,’ the magistrate said, ‘I will tell you the reason you had to rob him.’

      This was the magistrate’s last effort to break through the cashier’s calm and determined resistance.

      ‘Will you tell me,’ the magistrate began, ‘how much you spent last year?’

      Prosper answered promptly: ‘About 50,000 francs.’

      ‘Where did you get the money?’

      ‘I inherited 12,000 francs from my mother. My salary and commission came to 14,000. I made about 8,000 on the Stock Exchange, and the rest I borrowed. I can repay the latter item as I have 15,000 francs to my credit with M. Fauvel.’

      ‘Who lent you the money?’

      ‘M. Raoul de Lagors.’

      This gentleman had gone away on the day of the robbery, so he could not be examined.

      ‘Now, tell me,’ the magistrate said, ‘what made you withdraw the money from the bank the day before it was required?’

      ‘Because M. de Clameran gave me to understand, sir, that he required the money early in the morning.’

      ‘Was he a friend of yours, then?’

      ‘No, I did not like him, but he was a friend of M. de Lagors.’

      ‘How did you spend the evening of the robbery?’ the magistrate asked.

      ‘After leaving the office at five, I went by train to Saint Germain and to M. Raoul de Lagors’ country house with 1,500 francs he required. As he was not at home I left the money with the servant.’

      ‘Did you know M. de Lagors was going to travel?’

      ‘No, I do not know whether he is in Paris or not.’

      ‘What did you do when you left your friend’s house?’

      ‘I returned to Paris and dined with a friend at a Boulevard restaurant.’

      ‘After that?’

      Prosper hesitated.

      ‘As you won’t say,’ M. Patrigent went on, ‘I will tell you how you spent your time. You went to the Rue Chaptal, dressed and went to a party given by a woman named Wilson, one of those women who disgrace the theatres by calling themselves dramatic artistes.’

      ‘That is quite right, sir.’

      ‘There is a good deal of play there, is there not?’

      ‘Sometimes.’

      ‘You frequent those kind of places, do you not? Were you not mixed up in a scandalous adventure with a woman of that class named Crescenzi?’

      ‘I thought I was giving evidence concerning a robbery.’

      ‘Yes, gambling leads to robbery. Did you not lose 1,800 francs at the woman Wilson’s?’

      ‘Excuse me, sir, only 1,100 francs.’

      ‘Very well. In the morning you paid a bill of 1,000 francs.’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Besides, there was 500 francs in your desk and 400 francs in your purse when you were arrested. In all that was 4,500 francs in twenty-four hours.’

      Prosper was stupefied at this exact information which had been obtained in so short a time. At last he said:

      ‘Your information is accurate, sir.’

      ‘Where did this money come from, seeing that the previous evening you were so short you put off paying a small

      bill?’

      ‘Sir, on the day you mention, I sold through an agent some securities for 3,000 francs and drew 2,000 francs salary in advance. I have nothing to hide.’

      M. Patrigent renewed the attack from another point.

      ‘If you have nothing to hide,’ he said, ‘why did you mysteriously pass this note to a colleague?’

      The blow struck home. Prosper’s eyes dropped before the magistrate’s searching gaze.

      ‘I thought, I wished—’ he muttered.

      ‘You wanted to conceal your mistress.’

      ‘Yes, sir, that is true. I knew that when a man is accused of a crime, all the weaknesses of his life become evidence against him.’

      ‘You mean the presence of a woman would give weight to the charge. You live with a woman?’

      ‘I am young, sir.’

      ‘Justice can pardon passing indiscretions, but cannot excuse the scandal of these unions. The man who respects himself so little as to live with a fallen woman does not raise the woman up to him, but he descends to her.’

      ‘Sir.’

      ‘I suppose you know who this woman is to whom you have loaned your mother’s honourable name?’

      ‘Madame Gypsy was a governess when I met her; she was born at Oporto and came to France with a Portuguese family.’

      The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘Her name is not Gypsy,’ he said, ‘she has never been a governess, and she is not Portuguese.’

      Prosper tried to protest, but M. Patrigent silenced him, and began searching through a number of documents.

      ‘Ah, here it is; listen. Palmyre Chocareille, born at Paris in 1840, the daughter of Jacques Chocareille and Caroline Piedlent his wife. Palmyre Chocareille at the age of twelve was apprenticed to a bootmaker and stayed there till she was sixteen. At the age of seventeen she went as domestic servant to the Dombas, grocers, Rue Saint Denis, and stayed there three months. In that year, 1857, she had eight or ten places. In 1858, being weary of service, she went to work for a fan merchant in Passage Choiseul.’

      The magistrate watched Prosper’s face as he read to see the effect.

      ‘At the end of 1858,’ he continued, ‘the girl Chocareille entered the service of a lady named Nunès and went with her

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