LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Yes, I understand this story is not as romantic as the one she told you, but it is true. Six months after coming out of prison she made the acquaintance of a commercial traveller named Caldas, who was captivated by her beauty and who took rooms for her near the Bastille. She was living with him in his name till she left him for you. Have you ever heard of Caldas?’

      ‘Never, sir.’

      ‘This poor fellow loved her so madly that at the news of her departure he went mad with grief. He swore to kill the man who took her away, but he is supposed to have committed suicide, for after selling the furniture of the rooms he disappeared. That is the woman, your companion, for whom you stole. At least, admit that this woman was the cause of your downfall.’

      ‘I could not do that, sir, for it is not the case.’

      ‘At any rate she has been a great expense to you. Stop’—the magistrate drew out a bill—‘last December you paid her dressmaker 2,000 francs.’

      ‘All this money was spent willingly by me upon her.’

      ‘You deny the evidence,’ the magistrate continued. ‘Do you deny that this girl was the cause of your changed habits?’

      ‘Yes, sir, I do.’

      ‘Then why did you suddenly disappear from a house where you were courting a young lady?’

      ‘I cannot tell you my reasons,’ Prosper replied.

      The magistrate breathed more freely. He had found a weak spot in the prisoner’s armour.

      ‘Did Mademoiselle Madeleine dismiss you?’ he asked.

      Prosper was silent.

      ‘Speak,’ M. Patrigent insisted, ‘I must warn you this is a very serious point.’

      ‘However dangerous silence may be to me I shall not speak.’

      The magistrate waited in silence for a further statement, which he did not receive, and then resumed:

      ‘You have spent 50,000 francs in a year and exhausted your resources; you could not continue your kind of life; what did you think of doing?’

      ‘I had no plans, sir.’

      ‘You went on as long as you could and then drew upon your employer’s safe?’

      ‘Ah, sir, if I were guilty, I should not be here now. I should not have returned to my office.’

      M. Patrigent could not prevent a smile of satisfaction as he said:

      ‘I expected that argument. In remaining you showed your wisdom. Several recent cases have proved the futility of flight. Like a wise man you remained and said to yourself: “If the worst comes to the worst, after I have served my sentence I can enjoy the spoil.” Many people would sacrifice five years of their life for 350,000 francs.’

      ‘But, sir, if I had thought like that, I should have waited and taken a million.’

      ‘Oh,’ M. Patrigent said, ‘it is not always possible to wait.’

      After a few moments’ thought, Prosper said:

      ‘A detail has just come into my mind which may assist me. When the messenger brought the money from the bank, I was ready to leave, and I am sure I locked up the banknotes in his presence.’

      ‘He shall be examined,’ M. Patrigent said. ‘You will be taken back to your cell.’

      As soon as Prosper had gone, the magistrate turned to the clerk and said:

      ‘Was not a medical certificate received to excuse the messenger Antonin’s attendance? Where does he live?’

      ‘Sir,’ Sigault replied, ‘he is at present in the Dubois Hospital.’

      ‘Ah, well, I will go and examine him today. Send for a carriage.’

      On reaching the hospital and finding the man well enough to be examined, M. Patrigent and his clerk went to his bedside.

      When the messenger had answered the usual questions and said that he was Antonin Poche, that he was forty years old, was born at Cadaujac and a single man, the magistrate said:

      ‘Are you well enough to answer my questions?’

      ‘Quite, sir.’

      ‘Did you go to the bank on February 27 to withdraw the 350,000 francs which were stolen?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘What time did you return?’

      ‘Rather late; it must have been five o’clock when I got back.’

      ‘Do you remember what M. Bertomy did when you gave him the money? Now, think carefully.’

      ‘First he counted the notes and made them up into four packets which he put in the safe, then locked the safe, yes, and I am quite sure of it, and went out.’

      ‘Are you quite sure of what you are saying?’ asked the magistrate.

      The solemn tone of M. Patrigent frightened him.

      ‘Sure,’ he replied with marked hesitation, ‘I would wager my head upon it.’

      He would say no more for fear of being compromised, and it would not have taken much to make him withdraw his statement altogether.

      As the magistrate went out he said to his clerk:

      ‘It is becoming very serious.’

       CHAPTER VI

      THE Grand-Archange Hôtel, the refuge of Madame Gypsy, is the finest on the Quai Saint-Michel.

      Madame Alexandré, the proprietress, once a beautiful woman, had become too big, though her eyes were still bright and her teeth white, but alas her nose was red.

      She adored her husband, and just when M. Patrigent was leaving the Hospital she was waiting dinner for him.

      Fanferlot himself appeared. They had met three years before, when she employed him as a private inquiry agent. They got married and with their joint savings took and furnished the Grand-Archange Hôtel, where they prospered and were esteemed. Fanferlot’s employment in the detective service was kept a secret.

      ‘How late you are,’ she said as she kissed him.

      ‘I am worn out,’ he said; ‘I have been playing billiards all day with Evariste, M. Fauvel’s valet, and he won as often as he liked; he is a fellow who has no knowledge of anything but billiards. I made his acquaintance the day before yesterday and now I am his best friend. I am sure of his support if I apply for Antonin’s berth as messenger.’

      ‘What, you a messenger!’

      ‘Yes, I must take the position to make inquiries there.’

      ‘Did not the valet tell you anything?’

      ‘Nothing of much use. The banker is a saint. He has no vices. He does not drink, gamble or keep a mistress. He is enormously rich and lives frugally. He loves his wife and children; he often has visitors but rarely goes out.’

      ‘How old is his wife?’

      ‘About fifty.’

      ‘Have you found out,’ Madame Alexandré asked, ‘about the other members of the family?’

      ‘Oh, yes. The younger son is an officer somewhere. The elder, Lucien, lives with his parents and is a model of virtue. I have found out nothing about the wife or the niece.’

      ‘Do you know what I would do if I were in your place?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘I would consult M. Lecoq.’

      The name made Fanferlot jump.

      ‘That

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