tared for a second or two at his name,
then lay back in his chair and drew a deep breath. It was as he had
expected--the signature was a forgery.

He bent over it again. For long he sat, gazing at his own name, and
observing how badly it was counterfeited.

While his sharp eye followed every line in the letters of his name,
he scarcely thought. His mind was so disturbed, and his feelings so
strangely conflicting, that it was some time before he became conscious
how much they betrayed--these bungling strokes on the blue paper.

He felt a strange lump in his throat, his nose began to tickle a little,
and, before he was aware of it, a big tear fell on the paper.

He looked hastily around, took out his pocket-handkerchief, and
carefully wiped the wet place on the bill. He thought again of the old
banker in the Rue Bergere.

What did it matter to him that Alphonse's weak character had at last
led him to crime, and what had he lost? Nothing, for did he not hate
his former friend? No one could say it was his fault that Alphonse was
ruined--he had shared with him honestly, and never harmed him.

Then his thoughts turned to Alphonse. He knew him well enough to be sure
that when the refined, delicate Alphonse had sunk so low, he must have
come to a jutting headland in life, and be prepared to leap out of it
rather than let disgrace reach him.

At this thought Charles sprang up. That must not be. Alphonse should not
have time to send a bullet through his head and hide his shame in the
mixture of compassion and mysterious horror which follows the suicide.
Thus Charles would lose his revenge, and it would be all to no purpose
that he had gone and nursed his hatred until he himself had become evil
through it. Since he had forever lost his friend, he would at least
expose his enemy, so that all should see what a miserable, despicable
being was this charming Alphonse.

He looked at his watch; it was half-past four. Charles knew the cafe
in which he would find Alphonse at this hour; he pocketed the bill and
buttoned his coat.

But on the way he would call at a police-station, and hand over the bill
to a detective, who at a sign from Charles should suddenly advance
into the middle of the cafe where Alphonse was always surrounded by his
friends and admirers, and say loudly and distinctly so that all should
hear it:

"Monsieur Alphonse, you are charged with forgery."

It was raining in Paris. The day had been foggy, raw, and