he had read that it would be useless for the present.

"Let us examine the papers, then," said he.

"My husband's papers are all in his study," replied Mme. Favoral.

"Please lead me to it, madame."

The room which M. Favoral called loftily his study was a small room
with a tile floor, white-washed walls, and meanly lighted through a
narrow transom.

It was furnished with an old desk, a small wardrobe with grated door,
a few shelves upon which were piled some bandboxes and bundles of
old newspapers, and two or three deal chairs.

"Where are the keys?" inquired the commissary of police.

"My father always carries them in his pocket, sir," replied Maxence.

"Then let some one go for a locksmith." Stronger than fear,
curiosity had drawn all the guests of the cashier of the Mutual
Credit Society, M. Desormeaux, M. Chapelain, M. Desclavettes himself;
and, standing within the door-frame, they followed eagerly every
motion of the commissary, who, pending the arrival of the locksmith,
was making a flying examination of the bundles of papers left exposed
upon the desk.

After a while, and unable to hold in any longer:

"Would it be indiscreet," timidly inquired the old bronze-merchant,
"to ask the nature of the charges against that poor Favoral?"

"Embezzlement, sir."

"And is the amount large?"

"Had it been small, I should have said theft. Embezzling commences
only when the sum has reached a round figure."

Annoyed at the sardonic tone of the commissary:

"The fact is," resumed M. Chapelain, "Favoral was our friend; and,
if we could get him out of the scrape, we would all willingly
contribute."

"It's a matter of ten or twelve millions, gentlemen." Was it
possible? Was it even likely? Could any one imagine so many
millions slipping through the fingers of M. de Thaller's methodic
cashier?

"Ah, sir!" exclaimed Mme. Favoral, "if any thing could relieve my
feelings, the enormity of that sum would. My husband was a man of
simple and modest tastes."

The commissary shook his head.

"There are certain passions," he interrupted, "which nothing betrays
externally. Gambling is more terrible than fire. After a fire, some
charred remnants are found. What is there left after a lost game?
Fortunes may be thrown into the vortex of the bourse, without a trace
of them being left."

The unfortunate woman was not convinced.

"I could swear, sir," she protested, "that I knew how my husband
spent every hour