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 of his life.”     

       “Do not swear, madame.”     

       “All our friends will tell you how parsimonious my husband was.”     

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