letters which figured on the elegant brass plate adorning his door. He must have had a prosperous business, for he employed six collectors in addition to the clerks who wrote all day long in his office; and his clients were so numerous that the concierge was often heard to complain of the way they ran up and down the stairs, declaring that it was worse than a procession.     

       To be just, we must add that M. Fortunat’s appearance, manners and conduct were of a nature to quiet all suspicions. He was some thirty-eight years of age, extremely methodical in his habits, gentle and refined in his       manner, intelligent, very good-looking, and always dressed in perfect taste. He was accused of being, in business matters, as cold, as polished, and as hard as one of the marble slabs of the Morgue; but then, no one was obliged to employ him unless they chose to do so. This much is certain: he did not frequent cafes or places of amusement. If he went out at all after dinner, it was only to pass the evening at the house of some rich client in the neighborhood. He detested the smell of tobacco, and was inclined to be devout—never failing to attend eight o’clock mass on Sunday mornings. His housekeeper suspected him of matrimonial designs, and       perhaps she was right.     

       On the evening that the Count de Chalusse was struck with apoplexy M. Isidore Fortunat had been dining alone and was sipping a cup of tea when the door-bell rang, announcing the arrival of a visitor. Madame Dodelin hastened to open the door, and in walked Victor Chupin, breathless from his hurried walk. It had not taken him twenty-five minutes to cover the distance which separates the Rue de Courcelles from the Place de la Bourse.     

       “You are late, Victor,” said M. Fortunat, quietly.     

       “That’s true, monsieur, but it isn’t my fault. Everything was in confusion down there, and I was obliged to wait.”      

       “How is that? Why?”      

       “The Count de Chalusse was stricken with apoplexy this evening, and he is probably dead by this time.”      

       M. Fortunat sprang from his chair with a livid face and trembling lips.       “Stricken with apoplexy!” he exclaimed in a husky voice. “I am ruined!”      

       Then, fearing Madame Dodelin’s curiosity, he 

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