is ruinous in the extreme. But, on the other
hand, M. Favoral was making money, a great deal of money. He was
rich: he was supposed to be worth millions. Otherwise, Costeclar
would never have asked your hand."

"M. Chapelain pretends that at a certain time my father had at least
fifty thousand francs a year."

"It's bewildering."

For two or three minutes M. de Tregars remained silent, reviewing
in his mind every imaginable eventuality, and then,

"But no matter," he resumed. "As soon as I heard this morning the
amount of the deficit, doubts came to my mind. And it is for that
reason, dear friend, that I was so anxious to see you and speak to
you. It would be necessary for me to know exactly what occurred
here last night."

Rapidly, but without omitting a single useful detail, Mlle. Gilberte
narrated the scenes of the previous night--the sudden appearance of
M. de Thaller, the arrival of the commissary of police, M. Favoral's
escape, thanks to Maxence's presence of mind. Every one of her
father's words had remained present to her mind; and it was almost
literally that she repeated his strange speeches to his indignant
friends, and his incoherent remarks at the moment of flight, when,
whilst acknowledging his fault, he said that he was not as guilty
as they thought; that, at any rate, he was not alone guilty; and
that he had been shamefully sacrificed. When she had finished,

"That's exactly what I thought," said M. de Tregars.

"What?"

"M. Favoral accepted a role in one of those terrible financial
dramas which ruin a thousand poor dupes to the benefit of two or
three clever rascals. Your father wanted to be rich: he needed
money to carry on his intrigues. He allowed himself to be tempted.
But whilst he believed himself one of the managers, called upon to
divide the receipts, he was but a scene-shifter with a stated
salary. The moment of this denouement having come, his so-called
partners disappeared through a trap-door with the cash, leaving
him alone, as they say, to face the music."

"If that's the case," replied the young girl, "why didn't my father
speak?"

"What was he to say?"

"Name his accomplices."

"And suppose he had no proofs of their complicity to offer? He was
the cashier of the Mutual Credit; and it is from his cash that the
millions are gone."

Mlle. Gilberte's conjectures had run far ahead of that sentence.
Looking straight at Marius,

"Then," she said, "you believe, a