en played upon his friend on this
account, and now he began to perceive the dangerous ground upon which he
stood.

"On hearing the facts of the case from Ludovic's wife's lover,"
continued Mascarin, "my employers decided that if the tale was a true
one, some mention of it would be found in the Baron's diary; and thanks
to the ingenuity and skill of certain parties, they have had in their
possession for twenty-four hours the volume for the year 1842."

"Scoundrels!" muttered the Count.

"They find not only one, but three distinct statements relating to the
affair in question."

The Count started again to his feet with so menacing a look, that the
worthy Mascarin pushed back his chair in anticipation of an immediate
assault.

"Proofs!" gasped the Count. "Give me proofs."

"Everything has been provided for, and the three leaves by which you are
so deeply compromised have been cut from the book."

"Where are these pages?"

Mascarin at once put on an air of injured innocence.

"I have not seen them, but the leaves have been photographed, and a
print has been entrusted to me, in order to enable you to recognize the
writing."

As he spoke he produced three specimens of the photographic art,
wonderfully clear and full of fidelity. The Count examined them with the
utmost attention, and then in a voice which trembled with emotion, he
said, "True enough, it is his handwriting."

Not a line upon Mascarin's face indicated the delight with which he
received this admission.

"Before continuing the subject," he observed placidly, "I consider it
necessary for you to understand the position taken up by the Baron de
Clinchain. Do you wish, my lord, to read these extracts, or shall I do
so for you?"

"Read," answered the Count, adding in a lower voice, "I cannot see to do
so."

Mascarin drew his chair nearer to the lights on the table. "I perceive,"
said he, "that the first entry was made on the evening after the--well,
the accident. This is it: 'October 26, 1842. Early this morning went
out shooting with Octave de Mussidan. We were accompanied by Ludovic, a
groom, and by a young man named Montlouis, whom Octave intends one day
to make his steward. It was a splendid day, and by twelve o'clock I had
killed a leash of hares. Octave was in excellent spirits, and by one
o'clock we were in a thick cover not far from Bevron. I and Ludovic were
a few yards in front of the others, when angry voices behind attracted
our attentio