sible. I've never seen her; I've never heard her spoken of.
How long has she been there?"

"For six or seven months?"

"In that case, I can't absolutely deny it. It's two years since I set
foot in the count's house."

"I fancied this young lady might be the count's niece Mademoiselle
Hermine's daughter."

Madame Vantrasson shook her head. "Put that fancy out of your head,"
she remarked. "The count said that his sister was dead to him from the
evening of her flight."

"Who CAN this young girl be, then?"

"Bless me! I don't know. What sort of a looking person is she?"

"Very tall; a brunette."

"How old is she?"

"Eighteen or nineteen."

The woman made a rapid calculation on her fingers. "Nine and four are
thirteen," she muttered, "and five are eighteen. Ah, ha!--why not? I
must look into this."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing; a little reflection I was making to myself. Do you know this
young lady's name?"

"It's Marguerite."

The woman's face clouded. "No; it can't be then," she muttered, in a
scarcely audible voice.

M. Fortunat was on coals of fire. It was evident that this frightful
creature, even if she knew nothing definite, had some idea, some vague
suspicion of the truth. How could he compel her to speak now that she
was on her guard? He had not time to ascertain, for the door suddenly
opened, and Vantrasson appeared on the threshold. He was scarcely sober
when he left the shop, but now he was fairly drunk; his heavy shamble
had become a stagger. "Oh, you wretch, you brigand!" howled his wife;
"you've been drinking again!"

He succeeded in maintaining his equilibrium, and, gazing at her with the
phlegmatic stare peculiar to intoxicated men, he replied: "Well, what
of that! Can't I have a little pleasure with my friends? I came across
a couple of men who were just taking their fifteenth glass; why should I
refuse a compliment?"

"You can't hold yourself up."

"That's true." And to prove it he tumbled on to a chair.

A torrent of abuse now flowed from Madame Vantrasson's lips! M.
Fortunat only imperfectly distinguished the words "thief," "spy," and
"detective;" but he could not mistake the meaning of the looks which she
alternately gave her husband and himself. "It's a fortunate thing for
you that my husband is in this condition," her glances plainly implied,
"otherwise there would be an explanation, and then we should see--"

"I've had a lucky escape," thought the spurious clerk. But as