settled. His affairs prospered greatly. At fifty years old,
having made his fortune, he felt a desire to end his days at Lucca,
near a brother whom he tenderly loved. He wrote to his family, who
were delighted at the news. Soon another letter, dated Rouen,
announced his arrival there from England, and that he should reach
Lucca in about two months. This space of time was requisite for the
transaction of his business at Paris, and his journey onward. He was
daily expected at Lucca; but two, three, six months passed by, and he
arrived not; nor, what was stranger still, did any other letter from
him reach his family, whose anxiety was extreme. Cornelius, his
brother, went to Paris in search of him. He visited all the houses
whither Zambelli's commerce was likely to lead him. Many persons had
seen, or believed they had seen, Zambelli. An individual bearing that
name had claimed the payment due to bonds of a considerable amount:
the merchants showed the signature "Zambelli" at the bottom of the
receipts. "All these signatures are forged," cried Cornelius.
"Describe the person of the forger, so that I may bring him to
justice." But it was in vain; for no one could recollect precisely
the appearance of a man who had been seen so short a time.

'It was plain that an audacious robbery had been committed--perhaps a
murder. Cornelius went from Paris to Rouen, where he visited
successively all the hotels in the place. At one of them Zambelli had
been seen. He had left it for Paris, accompanied by a valet. This
valet had been little noticed: besides, six or eight months had
passed since the departure of Zambelli; and how could one domestic
excite attention among the numbers who had inhabited this hotel, the
most frequented in Rouen?

'It was at this time,' continued the lieutenant of police, 'that
Cornelius brought his complaint before me. Like him, I felt assured
that a great crime had been committed between Rouen and Paris; but
how could it be proved? How could the criminal be discovered? At last
a sudden thought struck me. Six or seven months since, a goldsmith,
named Martel, had opened a shop at Rouen, where he was entirely
unknown. There was something strange in his manner, and the
expression of his face: he said nothing of his parents or family; and
those who hazarded questions on the subject, received from him
evasive answers, given with ill-disguised embarrassment. Struck with
his business being the same as Zambelli's, an