speaking of the stolen three hundred and fifty thousand francs,
I leave a deficit in cash."

"A deficit!" This ominous word from the lips of a cashier fell like a
bombshell upon the ears of Prosper's hearers.

His declaration was interpreted in divers ways.

"A deficit!" thought the commissary: "how, after this, can his guilt be
doubted? Before stealing this whole contents of the safe, he has kept
his hand in by occasional small thefts."

"A deficit!" said the detective to himself, "now, no doubt, the very
innocence of this poor devil gives his conduct an appearance of great
depravity; were he guilty, he would have replaced the first money by a
portion of the second."

The grave importance of Prosper's statement was considerably diminished
by the explanation he proceeded to make.

"There is a deficit of three thousand five hundred francs on my cash
account, which has been disposed of in the following manner: two
thousand taken by myself in advance on my salary; fifteen hundred
advanced to several of my fellow-clerks. This is the last day of the
month; to-morrow the salaries will be paid, consequently--"

The commissary interrupted him:

"Were you authorized to draw money whenever you wished to advance the
clerks' pay?"

"No; but I knew that M. Fauvel would not have refused me permission to
oblige my friends in the bank. What I did is done everywhere; I have
simply followed my predecessor's example."

The banker made a sign of assent.

"As regards that spent by myself," continued the cashier, "I had a sort
of right to it, all of my savings being deposited in this bank; about
fifteen thousand francs."

"That is true," said M. Fauvel; "M. Bertomy has at least that amount on
deposit."

This last question settled, the commissary's errand was over, and his
report might now be made. He announced his intention of leaving, and
ordered to cashier to prepare to follow him.

Usually, this moment when stern reality stares us in the face, when
our individuality is lost and we feel that we are being deprived of our
liberty, this moment is terrible.

At this fatal command, "Follow me," which brings before our eyes the
yawning prison gates, the most hardened sinner feels his courage fail,
and abjectly begs for mercy.

But Prosper lost none of that studied phlegm which the commissary of
police secretly pronounced consummate impudence.

Slowly, with as much careless ease as if going to breakfast with a
friend, he sm