crossed the parlor, and reached Mlle. Gilberte’s room just as she was withdrawing from the window.
“Ah, it is that way he escaped!” he exclaimed.
He rushed to the window, and remained long enough leaning on his elbows to thoroughly examine the ground, and understand the situation of the apartment.
“It’s evident,” he said at last, “this window opens on the courtyard of the next house.”
This was said to one of his agents, who bore an unmistakable resemblance to the servant who had been asking so many questions in the afternoon.
“Instead of gathering so much useless information,” he added, “why did you not post yourself as to the outlets of the house?”
He was “sold”; and yet he manifested neither spite nor anger. He seemed in no wise anxious to run after the fugitive. Upon the features of Maxence and of Mlle. Gilberte, and more still in Mme. Favoral’s eyes, 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
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