little confidential communication on paper, I see; now we will discover something positive." His note written, Prosper folded it carefully into the smallest possible size, and after furtively glancing toward the detective, who remained motionless in his corner, threw it across the desk to little Cavaillon with this one word: "Gypsy!" All this was so quickly and skillfully done that Fanferlot was confounded, and began to feel a little uneasy. "The devil take him!" said he to himself; "for a suffering innocent, this young dandy has more pluck and nerve than many of my oldest customers. This, however, shows the result of education!" Yes: innocent or guilty, Prosper must have been endowed with great self-control and power of dissimulation to affect this presence of mind at a time when his honor, his future happiness, all that he held dear in life, were at stake. And he was only thirty years old. Either from natural deference, or from the hope of gaining some ray of light by a private conversation, the commissary determined to speak to the banker before acting decisively. "There is not a shadow of doubt, monsieur," he said, as soon as they were alone, "this young man has robbed you. It would be a gross neglect of duty if I did not secure his person. The law will decide whether he shall be released, or sent to prison." The declaration seemed to distress the banker. He sank into a chair, and murmured: "Poor Prosper!" Seeing the astonished look of his listener, he added: "Until today, monsieur, I have always had the most implicit faith in his honesty, and would have unhesitatingly confided my fortune to his keeping. Almost on my knees have I besought and implored him to confess that in a moment of desperation he had taken the money, promising him pardon and forgetfulness; but I could not move him. I have loved him; and even now, in spite of the trouble and humiliation that he is bringing upon me, I cannot bring myself to feel harshly toward him." The commissary looked as if he did not understand. "What do you mean by humiliation, monsieur?" "What!" said M. Fauvel, excitedly; "is not justice the same for all? Because I am the head of a bank, and he only a clerk, does it follow that my word is more to be relied upon than his? Why could I not have robbed myself? Such things have been done. They will ask me for facts; and I shall be compelled to expose the exact situation of my house, explain my affairs, disclose the secret and method of my operations." "It is true, monsieur, that you will be called upon for some explanation; but your well-known integrity—" "Alas! He was honest, too. His integrity has never been doubted. Who would have been suspected this morning if I had not been able to instantly produce a hundred thousand crowns? Who would be suspected 

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