to such a degree that he discoursed
with unwonted volubility. With total disregard of prudence, he talked
with inexcusable freedom of the Count de Chalusse, and M. de Valorsay,
and especially of his enemy, Mademoiselle Marguerite. "For it is she,"
he exclaimed, rapping on the table with his knife--"it is she who has
taken the missing millions! How she did it, no one will ever know, for
she has not an equal in craftiness; but it's she who has stolen them,
I'm sure of it! I would have taken my oath to that effect before the
magistrate, and I would have proved it, too, if he hadn't taken her part
because she's pretty--for she is devilishly pretty."

Even if M. Fortunat had wished to put in a word or two, he could have
found no opportunity. But his guest's loquacity did not displease him;
it gave him an opportunity for reflection. Strange thoughts arose in his
mind, and connecting M. Casimir's affirmations with the assurances of
the Marquis de Valorsay, he was amazed at the coincidence. "It's very
singular!" he thought. "Has this girl really stolen the money? and has
the marquis discovered the fact through Madame Leon, and determined to
profit by the theft? In that case, I may get my money back, after all! I
must look into the matter."

A partridge and a bottle of Pomard followed the shrimps and chablis; and
M. Casimir's loquacity increased, and his voice rose higher and higher.
He wandered from one absurd story to another, and from slander to
slander, until suddenly, and without the slightest warning, he began to
speak of the mysterious letter which he considered the undoubted cause
of the count's illness.

At the first word respecting this missive, M. Fortunat started
violently. "Nonsense!" said he, with an incredulous air. "Why the devil
should this letter have had such an influence?"

"I don't know. But it is certain--it had." And, in support of his
assertion, he told M. Fortunat how the count had destroyed the letter
almost without reading it, and how he had afterward searched for the
fragments, in order to find an address it had contained. "And I'm quite
sure," said the valet, "that the count intended to apply to you for the
address of the person who wrote the letter."

"Are you sure of that?"

"As sure as I am of drinking Pomard!" exclaimed M. Casimir, draining his
glass.

Rarely had the agent experienced such emotion. He did not doubt but what
this missive contained the solution of the mystery. "Were the sc