appear to be watching the house."

"Perhaps the head clerk knows more of this than we do. By the way, where
is he?"

"At the house of the Countess Macgregor, who has been assassinated, and
is now despaired of. They sent for the governor to-day, but the head
clerk was despatched in his stead."

"He has plenty in his hands, then, for I suppose he will fill Germain's
place as cashier."

"Talking of Germain, an odd thing has occurred. The governor, in order
to free him from prison, has declared that he made a mistake in his
accounts, and that he has found the money he accused Germain of taking."

"I do not see anything odd in that,--it is but justice. I was sure that
Germain was incapable of theft."

"Ah, here's a coach, gents!" said Chalamel, looking out of the window;
"it is not a spicy turn-out like that of the famous vicomte, the gay
Saint-Remy, but a hack concern."

"Who is coming out of it?"

"Only the cure,--a very worthy man he is, too."

"Silence! Some one comes in! To your work, my boys!"

And all the clerks, leaning over their desks, began to scrawl away with
much apparent industry, and as if their attention had not been taken off
their business for a single instant.

The pale features of the priest expressed at once a gentle melancholy
combined with an air of intelligence and venerable serenity. A small
black cap covered the crown of his head, while his long gray locks hung
down over the collar of his greatcoat. Let us merely add to this hasty
sketch, that owing to the worthy priest's implicit confidence in the
words and actions of others, he was, and ever had been, completely
blinded by the deep and well-practised hypocrisy of Jacques Ferrand.

"Is your worthy employer in his room, my children?" inquired the cure.

"Yes, M. l'Abbe, he is," answered Chalamel, as, rising respectfully, he
opened the door of an adjoining study, and waited for the priest to
enter.

Hearing loud voices in the apartment, and unwilling to overhear words
not intended for his ears, the abbe walked rapidly forwards, and tapped
briskly at the door.

"Come in," said a voice with a strong Italian accent; and, entering, the
priest found himself in the presence of Polidori and Jacques Ferrand.

The clerks did not appear to have erred in calculating upon the
approaching end of their employer. He was, indeed, scarcely to be
recognised. Spite of the almost spectral thinness and pallor of his
sharpened features, a deep red fev