he
greater when he discovered the real culprit. True, this grand discovery
was as far off as it had ever been; but Fanferlot was hopeful.

After hearing all he had to tell, the judge dismissed Fanferlot, telling
him to return the next day.

"Above all," he said, as Fanferlot left the room, "do not lose sight of
the girl Gypsy; she must know where the money is, and can put us on the
track."

Fanferlot smiled cunningly.

"You may rest easy about that, monsieur; the lady is in good hands."

Left to himself, although the evening was far advanced, M. Patrigent
continued to busy himself with the case, and to arrange that the rest of
the depositions should be made.

This case had actually taken possession of his mind; it was, at the same
time, puzzling and attractive. It seemed to be surrounded by a cloud of
mystery, and he determined to penetrate and dispel it.

The next morning he was in his office much earlier than usual. On this
day he examined Mme. Gypsy, recalled Cavaillon, and sent again for M.
Fauvel. For several days he displayed the same activity.

Of all the witnesses summoned, only two failed to appear.

One was the office-boy sent by Prosper to bring the money from the city
bank; he was ill from a fall.

The other was M. Raoul de Lagors.

But their absence did not prevent the file of papers relating to
Prosper's case from daily increasing; and on the ensuing Monday, five
days after the robbery, M. Patrigent thought he held in his hands enough
moral proof to crush the accused.

V

While his whole past was the object of the most minute investigations,
Prosper was in prison, in a secret cell.

The two first days had not appeared very long.

He had requested, and been granted, some sheets of paper, numbered,
which he was obliged to account for; and he wrote, with a sort of rage,
plans of defence and a narrative of justification.

The third day he began to be uneasy at not seeing anyone except the
condemned prisoners who were employed to serve those confined in secret
cells, and the jailer who brought him his food.

"Am I not to be examined again?" he would ask.

"Your turn is coming," the jailer invariably answered.

Time passed; and the wretched man, tortured by the sufferings of
solitary confinement which quickly breaks the spirit, sank into the
depths of despair.

"Am I to stay here forever?" he moaned.

No, he was not forgotten; for on Monday morning, at one o'clock, an hour
when