his maddening smile. Suddenly he said:

"Have you pen, ink and paper?"

"Yes, I have them. Why?"

"Produce them. I will give my reasons later."

Sanselme produced what was required.

"Very good," said Benedetto. "And now take this pen and oblige me by
writing a few lines."

"What shall I write?"

"I will dictate to you, that will be easier.

"On the 24th of February, 1839, Benedetto, an escaped convict from
Toulon, assassinated Madame Danglars, his mother."

"But this is horrible! No, I will not write that!"

"You had better do it without further objections. You can sign any name
you please."

Sanselme still hesitated.

"No," he said, finally, "I refuse. I of course do not know what use you
intend to make of this paper, but I know you. Some infamous machination
is on foot which I will not aid."

Benedetto smiled.

"You are far from rich," he said, "for I was at the window some little
time before I knocked. I must tell you that Comte Velleni's hotel is
next this, and I had not the smallest difficulty in coming here."

Sanselme glanced at the trunk that contained his scanty means.

"Precisely," said Benedetto, "a few louis and two or three bits of
paper."

"I ask nothing from you."

"But I offer these." And Benedetto took from an elegant portfolio ten
bank notes of one thousand francs each, and spread them out on the bed.
"Write what I bid you and this money is yours."

Sanselme turned very pale. It seemed as if Benedetto was his evil
genius--his tempter. He instantly realized what this sum would do for
her whose welfare was his perpetual anxiety.

"Will you write?"

Sanselme dipped his pen into the ink and began. Some instinct warned him
that he was doing wrong. He acted without volition of his own, and
simply in obedience to another, it is true, and it seemed to him that he
himself risked nothing, for he simply told the truth, and yet he was
troubled. Had Sanselme been alone in the world with no one but himself
to care for he might not have been so strict, for he had run many risks
in his life. But he felt that this was something wrong, and that evil
consequences would alight on not only himself, but her. The money
fascinated him, however. He wrote a few words, and then, dashing down
the pen, started up.

"No, I will not write. Take away your money, Benedetto, it will bring me
misfortune."

Benedetto uttered a furious oath. Then seizing a pen he himself wrote a
couple of lines. Laying th