LITMIR.BIZ

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called ‘Prosper Bertomy!’

      The cashier on leaving the dark gallery suddenly found himself almost blinded by the light from the window of the courtroom.

      The courtroom had nothing striking about it. It contained a large desk at which the magistrate sat with his face in shadow and with the light shining full in the faces of the accused and the witness. On his right was his clerk.

      Prosper’s attention was, however, fixed upon the magistrate’s face, and he soon realized that the warder was right, for he had an attractive and reassuring face.

      ‘Take a chair,’ he said to Prosper, who was favourably impressed by this attention and took it as a good omen.

      M. Patrigent made a sign to the clerk and said:

      ‘We are ready to begin, Sigault.’

      Turning to Prosper, he asked:

      ‘What is your name?’

      ‘Auguste Prosper Bertomy, sir.’

      ‘How old are you?’

      ‘I shall be thirty-five on the fifth of May.’

      ‘What is your occupation?’

      ‘I am, or rather I was the cashier at the André Fauvel Bank.’

      The magistrate stopped to consult his papers and then asked:

      ‘Where do you live?’

      ‘At 39, Rue Chaptal for the last four years. Before that I lived at No. 7, Boulevard des Bategnolles.’

      ‘Where were you born?’

      ‘At Beaucaire, in the Department du Gard.’

      ‘Are your parents alive?’

      ‘I lost my mother two years ago, but my father is still alive.’

      ‘Does he live in Paris?’

      ‘No, sir, he lives at Beaucaire with my sister, who married an engineer of the Midi Canal.’

      Prosper replied to the last question in a troubled voice. There are times in a man’s life when the remembrance of his relations consoles him, but there are also times when he wishes to be alone in the world.

      M. Patrigent noted his emotion and continued:

      ‘What is your father’s profession?’

      ‘He was, sir, employed on the Midi Canal; now he has retired.’

      ‘You are accused of stealing 350,000 francs from your employer. What have you to say?’

      ‘I am innocent, sir; I swear I am innocent!’

      ‘I hope so,’ M. Patrigent said, ‘and you can count on my assistance in proving your innocence. Have you any facts to mention in your defence?’

      ‘Sir, what can I say? I can only invoke my whole life.’

      The magistrate interrupted. ‘Let us be precise; the robbery was committed in such a way that suspicion can only rest upon M. Fauvel and you. Can you throw suspicion on anyone else?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘You say you are innocent, so M. Fauvel must be the criminal.’

      Prosper made no answer.

      ‘Have you,’ M. Patrigent insisted, ‘any reason to think your employer robbed himself? Tell me it, however trifling it may be.’

      As he made no reply the magistrate said:

      ‘I see you still need time for reflection. Listen to the reading of your evidence, and after you have signed it you will return to prison.’

      The cashier was overwhelmed by these words. He signed the statement without hearing a word of the reading and staggered so on leaving the courtroom that the warder told him to lean upon him and take courage.

      His examination was a formality carried out in obedience to the law, which ordered that a prisoner was to be examined within twenty-four hours of his arrest.

      Had Prosper remained an hour longer in the gallery, he would have heard the same usher call out ‘number three’.

      The witness who was number three was sitting on the bench in the person of M. Fauvel. He was a changed man. His ordinary benevolence had disappeared and he was full of resentment against his cashier.

      He had hardly answered the usual questions before he launched out into such recriminations and invectives against Prosper that the magistrate had to silence him.

      ‘Let us take things in their proper order,’ he said to M. Fauvel, ‘and please confine yourself to answering my questions.

      ‘Did you doubt your cashier’s honesty?’

      ‘Certainly not; and yet a thousand reasons might have led me to do so.’

      ‘What reasons were they?’

      ‘M. Bertomy, my cashier, gambled and sometimes lost large sums. On one occasion, with one of my clients, he was mixed up in a scandalous gaming affair, which began with a woman and ended with the police.’

      ‘You must admit, sir,’ the magistrate said, ‘you were ­imprudent, if not culpable, to entrust your cash to such a man.’

      ‘But, sir,’ M. Fauvel replied, ‘he was not always like it. Till a year ago he was a model. He resided in my house and I believed him to be in love with my niece Madeleine.’

      M. Patrigent had a way of knitting his brows when he thought he had made a discovery.

      ‘Perhaps that was the reason of his departure?’ the magistrate asked.

      ‘Why,’ the banker replied with a surprised look, ‘I would have willingly given him my niece’s hand, and she is a pretty girl with money.’

      ‘Then you can see no motive in your cashier’s conduct?’

      ‘Absolutely none,’ the banker replied, after a little thought. ‘I always thought he was led astray by a young man he knew at that time, M. Raoul de Lagors.’

      ‘Who is he?’

      ‘A relative of my wife’s, a charming fellow, but rich enough to pay for his amusement.’

      The magistrate did not seem to be listening, he was adding Lagors to his long list of names.

      ‘Now,’ he resumed, ‘you are sure the robbery was not committed by anyone in your house?’

      ‘Quite sure, sir.’

      ‘Your key was never out of your possession?’

      ‘Very rarely; and when I did not carry it, it was in one of the drawers in my desk.’

      ‘Where was it on the evening of the robbery?’

      ‘In my desk.’

      ‘But then—’

      ‘Excuse me, sir,’ M. Fauvel interrupted, ‘but may I mention that with a safe like mine the key counts for little. One must know the word at which to set the five movable buttons.’

      ‘Did you tell anyone the word?’

      ‘No, sir. Besides, Prosper changed the word when he felt so disposed. He used to tell me and I often forgot.’

      ‘Had you forgotten it on the day of the robbery?’

      ‘No; the word was changed the previous evening, and its strangeness struck me.’

      ‘What was it?’

      ‘Gypsy. G-y-p-s-y.’ (The banker spelt it.)

      This word M. Patrigent also wrote down.

      ‘One more question, sir,’ he said. ‘Were you at home the evening of the robbery?’

      ‘No,

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