ot seek revenge?"

"No," replied M. Verduret with a singular expression, "no: fate took
charge of my vengeance."

For a minute Prosper was silent; then he said:

"I have finally decided, monsieur. My honor is a sacred trust for which
I must account to my family. I am ready to follow you to the end of the
world; dispose of me as you judge proper."

That same day Prosper, faithful to his promise, sold his furniture, and
wrote a letter to his friends announcing his intended departure to San
Francisco.

In the evening he and M. Verduret installed themselves in the
"Archangel."

Mme. Alexandre gave Prosper her prettiest room, but it was very ugly
compared with the coquettish little parlor on the Rue Chaptal. His state
of mind did not permit him, however, to notice the difference between
his former and present quarters. He lay on an old sofa, meditating upon
the events of the day, and feeling a bitter satisfaction in his isolated
condition.

About eleven o'clock he thought he would raise the window, and let the
cool air fan his burning brow; as he did so a piece of paper was blown
from among the folds of the window-curtain, and lay at his feet on the
floor.

Prosper mechanically picked it up, and looked at it.

It was covered with writing, the handwriting of Nina Gypsy; he could not
be mistaken about that.

It was the fragment of a torn letter; and, if the half sentences did not
convey any clear meaning, they were sufficient to lead the mind into all
sorts of conjectures.

The fragment read as follows:

"of M. Raoul, I have been very im . . . plotted against him, of whom
never . . . warn Prosper, and then . . . best friend. he . . . hand of
Mlle. Ma . . ."

Prosper never closed his eyes during that night.

IX

Not far from the Palais Royal, in the Rue St. Honore, is the sign of "La
Bonne Foi," a small establishment, half cafe and half shop, extensively
patronized by the people of the neighborhood.

It was in the smoking-room of this modest cafe that Prosper, the day
after his release, awaited M. Verduret, who had promised to meet him at
four o'clock.

The clock struck four; M. Verduret, who was punctuality itself,
appeared. He was more red-faced and self-satisfied, if possible, than
the day before.

As soon as the servant had left the room to obey his orders, he said to
Prosper:

"Well, are our commissions executed?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Have you seen the costumer?"

"I gave him your lett