While his friend was trying to save him, AdhÉmar de Puymirol was in a cell at the prefecture dÉpÔt. It was the third day of his imprisonment, and he was pacing, savagely, up and down, like a captive lion in his cage, when suddenly he heard a jailer unbolt the door, and for a moment he deluded himself with the belief that the moment of his release had arrived. All prisoners are subject to these fits of hopefulness. However, this one was of short duration.

"I am ordered to conduct you to the magistrate's office," announced the jailer.

"What for?" replied Puymirol, "I won't answer his questions, so it is not worth while disturbing me."

"It will be the last time. You came here on the 26th. To-day's the 29th, and no one stays here more than three days."

This reply calmed Puymirol. It did not seem to him at all improbable that his case would end favourably, at all events, he would soon know his fate, so he silently followed the warder through the corridors, and up the staircase to M. Robergeot's office. Charles Balmer's friend was still in the prime of life, and had a prepossessing face. He motioned Puymirol to a chair, and the prisoner, as he sat down, curtly exclaimed: "I hope you will put an end to all this, sir."

"It is with that intention that I sent for you," replied the magistrate, "though I might have spared myself the trouble, as you have so far refused to furnish any of the information asked of you; still, I felt it my duty to give you one more chance to tell the truth."

"I have told you all I am going to tell you."

"You have told me nothing. You have even tried to retract the testimony you gave to the commissary of police at the Palais de l'Industrie. You have adopted a most deplorable course. I say nothing about the fact that you presented a lottery ticket that did not belong to you. That is a trifling offence in comparison with the crime of murder, followed by robbery, with which you are charged. It is true I am perfectly satisfied that you did not fire the bullet that killed Dargental, for I admit that an alibi has been conclusively established, but this does not prove that you don't know the murderer, and that the crime was not committed in your interest, or in the interest of some person connected with you."

"How can you expect me to prove the injustice of your suspicions? I was well acquainted with Dargental, it is true, but though he may have had enemies, I know nothing about them."

"Well, let me refresh your memory on another point of the case. We have succeeded in finding the cabman who took you to the Lion d'Or, and his testimony proves that you were not alone in his cab in which you claim to have found the lottery tickets. Why did you tell the commissary the contrary?"

"You would have done the same, had you been in my place. I do not wish to subject an innocent person to the same annoyance and discomfort as myself."

"But this person's testimony might be of great service to you. Besides, we shall soon ascertain who your companion was. The cabman already declares that on the day of the murder, and between the hours of half-past eleven and half-past twelve o'clock, he drove two young gentlemen from the Rue de Medicis to the Lion d'Or, and that he had no other fares that morning. He also declares that before leaving the stable that day he had carefully examined the interior of his vehicle, and had not found in it any papers left there by any former passenger. He also declares that nothing extraordinary occurred during the drive referred to."

"We are revolving in the same circle, it seems to me," interrupted Puymirol, "and if you have nothing fresh to tell me—"

"This cabman also declares that a few days after the crime a man who had taken the number of his vehicle came to his residence, which he had ascertained at the company's office, and after giving him twenty francs, questioned him at length about this drive on the 9th of April. The cabman could only tell him what he just told me, viz., that his two passengers alighted at the Lion d'Or in the Rue du Helder. Now, can you tell me why this person inquired after you?"

"No, I can't. Look him up yourself, and ask him the question."

"We are looking for him, but though we have not yet succeeded in finding him, I know what he did after his interview with the cabman. I have questioned the employÉs of the restaurant, among them the door-porter, who tells me that this same man offered him a liberal reward if he would point out either of the two young fellows who breakfasted there in a private room on the morning of April 9th. The porter, who did not know your name, though he knew you very well by sight, promised to do what this person asked, and the latter waited for nearly three weeks, watching for you. You did not show yourself, however, until quite recently; in fact, not until the day previous to your arrest. Then this stranger followed you into the restaurant, and had a long conversation with you, after which you both left the restaurant, though not together. Still, the porter noticed that you followed this stranger up the Boulevard Haussmann. Now, what have you to say to this story? Do you admit that it is true?"

"By no means, but even if I did, what conclusions would you draw from such an admission on my part?" asked Puymirol.

"That this man was your accomplice; that he was the murderer of Dargental, and that he was trying to communicate with you in reference to a crime which he had committed at your instigation."

"You are going too far, it seems to me. You forget that if this person had acted by my orders he would necessarily have known who I was, and where I lived, and would not have applied to the doorkeeper of a restaurant for information about me."

"You doubtless had your reasons for concealing your name and address. When a man hires a scoundrel to commit a murder, he is usually anxious to keep his identity secret. However, there is a very easy way for you to prove that I am mistaken. That is, to tell me what this man wanted of you, what he said to you at the Lion d'Or, and where you went with him after dinner." This argument was irrefutable, and Puymirol realised it.

"In short," continued the magistrate, "if you will only tell the truth, I can almost promise that you would escape indictment."

Puymirol's eyes flashed. He espied liberty before him—the effacement of his fault, a bright future; but his face suddenly clouded, his features contracted, and he said, with a scornful gesture: "Bah! your clemency could not restore me what I have lost. A man who has spent three days in prison is dishonoured for life. Besides, I haven't a penny, and the only future in store for me is starvation."

"I can prove to you that you have nothing of the kind to fear. You come from PÉrigord, don't you, and your relatives reside there?"

"My only remaining relative is an aunt who allows me two thousand francs a year; my father left me nothing but debts."

"Which were long since paid by your aunt, Madame BessÈges, who resides at Montpazier, in the department of the Dordogne."

"How do you know that?"

"I have naturally made inquiries about you, and have learned that you belong to an old and highly respected family."

"Oh! We have been ruined for centuries."

"Your aunt made a wealthy marriage, however, and she inherited all her husband's property."

"Yes, but I sha'n't inherit her fortune."

"You have done so already. She died three days ago, after appointing you her sole legatee; and you consequently possess an income of eighty thousand francs. Oh! don't think I am jesting! Since your arrest, all letters addressed to you have been seized at the post-office. This was done by my orders. I hoped that in your correspondence I might find some clue to this mystery, but I was disappointed in that respect. This morning, however, there came a letter from a notary at Montpazier, announcing your aunt's sudden death, and inclosing a certified copy of her will. The document will be given to you as soon as you are set at liberty."

"Then you intend to set me at liberty?"

"That depends entirely upon yourself. The affair of the lottery ticket, and that of the murder, are closely connected, though one is of great, and the other of trifling importance. If you persist in remaining silent, I shall be compelled to believe that you are the culprit, in both cases, for you would not refuse to explain matters if you were merely guilty of a trifling misdemeanour. If you are innocent of the capital charge, you have only to tell me the truth about the finding of the lottery tickets, and I will release you." Puymirol, deeply moved, evidently hesitated. "Pray, recollect," continued the magistrate, "that I shall eventually succeed in solving the mystery without your assistance, so spare me the pain of sending you to Mazas. You are now rich, and public feeling is always very lenient towards the wealthy. Your mishap will soon be forgotten, and your life will become a pleasant one. But, perhaps, you prefer the Assizes? Choose."

Puymirol's choice was already made. Whilst poor, he had been reticent to the verge of heroism. He had not thought it worth his while to purchase freedom by a confession, merely to drag out a miserable existence. He preferred to take his chances of conviction, and profit by his silence afterwards, for he felt sure that the Countess de Lescombat would not fail to reward him eventually. However, he now viewed his situation under an entirely different light. To re-enter the gay world of Paris, which so quickly forgets misdemeanours; to begin life again with plenty of money, that made it well worth his while to yield to the magistrate's entreaties. Besides, as he was well aware, this magistrate already suspected the truth, which truth was likely to come to light at any moment. He had only to question George Caumont, and the latter would probably tell all he knew, reticent as he had been at first. Puymirol reasoned thus, being entirely ignorant of all that had occurred since his arrest. He did not suspect that George was far more deeply interested than himself in concealing the truth about the letters, since one of them, and the only one to which Puymirol attached no importance, had been written by Gabrielle's mother. Being ignorant of this fact, AdhÉmar naturally supposed that he might venture to confess the truth, without injuring his friend, who felt very little interest in Blanche Pornic, and still less in the Countess de Lescombat. "Well, sir," he began, "I am deeply touched by the kindness and consideration with which you have treated me, and I should be ungrateful, indeed, if I longer resisted your entreaties. I will therefore confess that I know Dargental's murderer."

"At last!" exclaimed M. Robergeot, with a meaning glance at his clerk who had been sitting hard by, idly twirling his pen.

Puymirol then duly acquainted the magistrate with the precise circumstances of the finding of the pocket-book in the cab, on the way to the Lion d'Or, and this point being disposed of he continued: "I am now coming to the most important incident of my story. On the day preceding my arrest, I dined at the Lion d'Or, and had scarcely begun my dinner when I noticed that a gentleman who had taken a seat near me was staring at me with unusual persistency. This gentleman finally seated himself at my table, and then made some very strange disclosures. He began by admitting that he was the person who had thrown the pocket-book into the cab."

"What was his object in telling you that, for he must have had an object in confessing that he had thrown his pocket-book away?"

"He wished me to return it to him."

"Did you comply with his request?"

"No. I replied that I had left it at home, but that I would send it to him if he would give me his address. That he declined to do. He then begged of me to make an appointment to meet him somewhere. I refused, and asked him why he was so anxious to regain possession of an article that was not worth more than fifteen or twenty francs. He made some very poor excuse, and, to try him, I told him I had taken it to the commissary of police in the ChaussÉe d'Antin, whereupon he seemed greatly disturbed, and after mumbling out some unintelligible excuse, he left me."

"Did you allow the matter to drop there?"

"Wait a moment. I had a plan, and I proceeded to carry it into execution. I had the pocket-book about me at the time, and I have since thought that he must have seen the end of it projecting from my pocket. I did not suspect it then, however, and I took it into my head to find out who he was, for I was as anxious to discover Dargental's murderer as you can be. I thought that by following him at a little distance I should be able to find out where he lived. I adopted this course, and he let me follow him till we reached a lonely spot not far from the Avenue de Villiers; whereupon he turned to the right, into a little street I had never seen before. Here, I unconsciously ventured too near him, for he had concealed himself, and just as I least expected it, he seized me by the throat, throwing me to the ground, and nearly strangling me. When I regained consciousness, I perceived that he had taken the pocket-book from me, and that he was already almost out of sight."

M. Robergeot listened very attentively to this narrative, and when Puymirol paused, he quietly remarked: "The lottery tickets went as well, I suppose?"

"No," murmured Puymirol, slightly embarrassed. "I half suspected that the rascal intended to attack me, so I took the precaution to remove them from the pocket-book. I am sorry now that I did not leave them there, for in that case I should not have been tempted to use them, whereas, if he had yielded to the temptation, you would now have Dargental's real murderer in your power."

"Can you describe this man?" asked M. Robergeot.

"Certainly," replied Puymirol, delighted at this promising beginning. "He was about fifty years of age, and of medium height, though rather strongly built, with a dark complexion, rather keen eyes, and a very energetic face. There was nothing particularly striking about his appearance, but I should recognise him among a thousand."

"Your description agrees with that given by the cabman. But how did this man act when you spoke to him about the murder?"

"I did not speak to him on the subject," answered Puymirol, slightly disconcerted. "The fact is, I was afraid of arousing his suspicions. It was a part of my plan to let him do all the talking. I hoped he would betray himself."

"But you must have asked him why he threw the pocket-book into your cab?"

"Of course, and he replied that there were persons following him, and anxious to rob him, and that he could think of no other way of outwitting them."

"The contents of this pocket-book must have been very valuable, judging by his anxiety to secure possession of it again."

"Perhaps it had contained some bank-notes, but when it came into my hands there was nothing in it but the lottery tickets."

"And it was to recover these lottery tickets that this fellow risked his head?—for he did risk it by entering into conversation with you in a public place, as you had only to denounce him to secure his arrest. In fact, it was your duty to have sent word to a commissary of police while the scoundrel was seated at your table. Come, sir, complete your confession. Confess that there were some letters in the pocket-book—compromising letters, no doubt."

Puymirol turned pale, and hung his head. He saw that he was caught in his own trap. There was no course for him now but to make a clean breast of it. "You are right, sir," he said resolutely, "and I admit that I have done wrong in hiding that fact. There were some letters which I entrusted to my friend, Caumont; but I must add that he consented to accept the trust greatly against his will, and that, from the very first, he urged me to take the pocket-book and its contents to a commissary of police."

"And you say he has these letters?"

"Unless he has burned them, which is not unlikely. He is well acquainted with Balmer, and must have heard of my arrest, so that a fear of injuring me may have led him to destroy the notes."

"It will be very unfortunate for you, and for him, if these letters have disappeared. Did you read them?"

"Yes, and they were all written by women, former sweethearts of Dargental's, evidently. In fact, I feel almost positive that one of these women instigated the murder. However, these letters were none of them signed, so that the best means of getting at the truth would be to find the man who threw the pocket-book into our cab, and who afterwards succeeded in taking it from me. When he is once under arrest, it is probable that he will make a full confession, and name the woman who hired him to commit the crime, for it will be greatly to his interest to throw a part of the responsibility upon her."

M. Robergeot was about to reply, but just then a clerk entered by a side-door, and approaching the magistrate, said a few words to him in a low tone. "Very well, show him in," was the response, and an instant afterwards the door opened for the second time, and George Caumont appeared. His manner was graver than usual; and it was very evident that he was trying hard to repress some strong emotion. He bowed politely to the magistrate, and then walked to Puymirol, with whom he shook hands.

"I am very glad to see you," said AdhÉmar. "Your testimony will confirm the statements I have just made."

"I will spare you the trouble of questioning this gentleman," interrupted M. Robergeot, and turning to George, he said: "Take a chair."

George silently obeyed, and waited. "Have you brought the letters?" asked the magistrate point blank.

"What letters?" asked George, pretending not to understand.

"The letters that were in the pocket-book."

"I haven't the slightest idea what you mean."

"Oh! your friend here intrusted them to your care."

On hearing this, George, in surprise, glanced at Puymirol, who exclaimed: "You can speak. I have told everything."

Caumont turned pale. He forgot that Puymirol did not know Madame Verdon, so that he could not have mentioned her as one of Dargental's correspondents. "It would ill become me to contradict a man I like and esteem," he said in a voice husky with emotion, "and nothing could have induced me to betray the secret he confided to me, but as he bids me speak, I admit that on the day I saw Monsieur de Puymirol for the last time, he intrusted a package of letters to my care, begging me to take charge of them until his return home. As he failed to make his appearance, I felt very anxious about him. However, Monsieur Balmer informed me that my missing friend was in prison. I also learned from the same source that his rooms had been searched; and as I was perfectly satisfied in my own mind that this search had been made for the express purpose of securing the letters in question, I thought it best to burn them."

"Indeed! Ah! You have done very wrong;" exclaimed the magistrate. "By destroying those letters you have made yourself, in a measure, the accomplice of a murderer."

Here Puymirol, thinking that George was getting them both into trouble, deemed it advisable to interfere. "Confess that you haven't burned them," he interposed, quickly. "You promised to keep them, and your word can be depended upon. You prevaricate from excess of delicacy, and because you are afraid of implicating some of Dargental's old flames. That is absurd. We should be simpletons to compromise ourselves on their account. I would give up the letters, if I had them, without the slightest compunction."

George was suffering terribly. He was on the rack, and his friend seemed to be deserting him. Ah, how glad he would have been to throw the letters on the magistrate's desk, if one of them had not come from Madame Verdon. He now regretted that he had not kept the other two, or, at least, Madame de Lescombat's, for he hated her with all his heart. "I repeat that I have not got them," he said, gloomily.

M. Robergeot was about to put an end to the discussion, when his messenger reappeared, this time with a note which the magistrate tore open carelessly, little suspecting its importance. But he had scarcely glanced at it, when his expression changed. "Who gave you this letter?" he inquired, eagerly.

"A man who is waiting for an answer."

"Very well; go and tell him that I will ring for him in a few moments. Until then, don't lose sight of him, and if he attempts to go away, detain him, by force if necessary, even if you have to call upon the guards for assistance." As soon as the messenger had left the room, M. Robergeot turned to the two young fellows and said: "To which of you am I indebted for this mystification? For it is the work of one of you, I feel certain." Then, seeing them look at each other in very natural astonishment: "These are the terms of the letter I have just received," he continued. "'Pierre Dargental's murderer desires an immediate interview with the magistrate. He gives himself up, but he has some revelations to make before the magistrate signs the order for his detention.' Now, have you any knowledge of this strange culprit? Am I indebted to you for bringing him to light?"

"What possible motive could we have had?" asked George.

"Then you have no idea who he is?"

"Not the slightest."

"Well, I am now about to send for this man," resumed M. Robergeot, gravely. "Remain seated, and say nothing, whoever he may prove to be. You must not speak till I have finished."

"Very well," replied Puymirol; "but you won't forbid me to look at him, and if it is my acquaintance of the restaurant, I will warn you by a sign. If I recognise him, I will raise my hand to my forehead."

"So be it; but confine yourself to that. As for you, Monsieur Caumont, I give you permission to do the same, if you recognise this man as the person who threw the pocket-book into your cab on the Place du Carrousel."

George remained silent. He had not yet admitted that he was in the cab at the time, and he did not deem it advisable to admit it now. M. Robergeot did not insist, however. He rang, and the stranger entered, closely followed by the messenger, and advanced towards the desk at which the magistrate was seated; but on perceiving the two friends, whom he had failed to notice at first, he turned pale, and stopped short. Puymirol found it very difficult to keep quiet, for he had recognised the mysterious stranger of the Lion d'Or at the very first glance. He restrained himself, however, and, without a word, passed his hand across his forehead. George Caumont, on his side, remained silent and motionless; but every vestige of colour had fled from his cheeks, leaving him even paler than the visitor who declared himself to be Dargental's murderer. "Come, sir," the magistrate said to the new comer, without inviting him to be seated, "I do not suppose that you came here to play a joke on me; but I can not help wondering if you are in your right mind. I warn you that I have no time to lose. So explain the meaning of the extraordinary letter I have just received from you. I should mention that these gentlemen are suspected of being accomplices in the crime of which you accuse yourself. I, therefore, that they should hear what you have to say."

"They accomplices!" exclaimed the stranger. "I declare that they are both innocent. I had no accomplices."

"Then you don't know either of these gentlemen?"

However, instead of falling into the trap set for him, the new comer coolly replied: "I don't know their names, but I have seen them before. I have even had a long conversation with one of them. That one," he added, pointing to Puymirol.

"Where, and under what circumstances?"

"At the restaurant known as the Lion d'Or, which I entered for the express purpose of speaking to him."

"That is perfectly true!" cried Puymirol, delighted to hear the culprit confirm the testimony he had given.

"And where did you see that gentleman?" asked the magistrate, pointing to George Caumont.

"I saw him but once in a cab on the Place du Carrousel."

"Well, why was it that you killed Pierre Dargental, on the 9th of April last?"

"Because he refused to surrender to me some letters which he intended to use against a woman."

"But why did you interest yourself in her behalf?"

"I was in love with her. She is a married woman, and Dargental threatened to denounce her to her husband, who would have killed her, had he seen those proofs of her infatuation."

"So you became a murderer through love and devotion?" said M. Robergeot, ironically. "We will see by-and-by how the jury appreciate these extenuating circumstances. In the meantime, if you wish me to believe you, you must give me the name of this woman who was, of course, your accomplice."

"No, sir; I acted entirely without her knowledge or consent. She is absolutely ignorant of what I have done."

"Then you refuse to give me her name?"

"Is it likely that I have risked my life, and surrender it to you, in view of betraying the woman I have sworn to save? Take my life; it is yours; but I shall carry my secret with me to the grave."

George's face brightened, and Puymirol could not help showing his admiration for this heroism on the part of the man he had so bitterly anathematized. "You fancy that this secret will die with you," replied the magistrate; "but I think I shall succeed in discovering it. I believe I am already on the track." And then, gazing searchingly at the stranger, M. Robergeot said:

"We will return to this subject presently. You must now give me the particulars of the murder."

"It is for that purpose that I came here," replied the new comer, coldly. "I called on Dargental at about eleven o'clock, on the morning of April 9th. He admitted me himself, ushered me into the dining-room, and left me in order to enter his bed-chamber. He returned a moment afterwards with a pistol in his hand; and I had scarcely begun to explain the object of my visit, before he began to abuse me in the most insulting manner. He showered offensive epithets upon me, and uttered the most violent threats against the person whom I wished to place beyond the reach of his knavery. He declared that if she did not pay him the sum of two hundred thousand francs before two days had expired, he would send the letters she had been so imprudent as to write him, to her husband. He added that these letters were then in his pocket, ready to be produced at any moment. Frantic with rage, I sprang at his throat. He freed himself, and threatened me with his pistol; I tried to wrest it from him, but during the struggle, and at a moment when the barrel of the pistol was pointed at his breast, the weapon went off."

"And the bullet pierced Dargental's heart? This was a most unlucky chance. You are remarkably clever. You almost convince me that you were acting only in self-defence, and that the crime you committed was simply justifiable homicide. Well, what after?"

"I lifted the body, placed it in an arm-chair, searched all his pockets, found the note-case he always carried upon his person, opened it, satisfied myself that the letters were there, placed it in my pocket, and left the house without even taking the precaution to wash my blood-stained hands."

"Which left stains upon the lottery tickets you had handled?"

"That is true; I recollect now, that there were some lottery tickets in one of the compartments of the pocket-book."

"Well, you have not told me all. What occurred afterwards?"

"I left the house, fully intending to return home and burn the letters, after showing them to the writer, but, on the Boulevard Haussmann, I saw two men who pretended to be strolling along, looking into the shop windows, but whom I instantly recognised, in spite of their disguise, as two men of a detective agency, whom the lady's husband had hired to watch his wife. Dargental had sent him anonymous letters about her and me. They started after me, and at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue des Pyramides one of them stopped to speak to a policeman, while the other continued to follow me. I watched the movements of the policeman out of the corner of my eye, and saw that he refused to interfere. The next one we met might prove less scrupulous, and I might be arrested and taken to the station-house, where I should certainly be searched, and the letters found upon me. I realized my danger, and felt that I had not a moment to lose in getting rid of the letters, so without stopping to reflect, I adopted the first plan that occurred to me. I was just passing one of the outlets of the Place du Carrousel. There was a long line of vehicles. The private detectives were following me at a little distance, talking together, probably making arrangements to pick a quarrel with me, in order to attract the attention of the police, who would take us to the station house. At all events their conversation was so animated that they forgot to watch my movements. In the last cab on the line I saw two gentlemen. The window was open, and I dropped the pocket-book inside, carefully noting the number of the vehicle as I did so. The two detectives gave me no further trouble, however, as no policeman would consent to lend them a helping hand, still they followed me to Montrouge. There is a house there with which I am familiar, and which has two outsets. I entered it, and made my escape by one door, while the two rascals were talking with the porter at the other."

"Is this all you have to tell me?" inquired M. Robergeot.

"Yes, sir," the man replied, coldly. "You now merely have to send me to prison."

"Which I shall proceed to do so as soon as certain formalities are complied with. Your disclosures were so unexpected that I quite forgot to ask your name, profession, age and residence."

"It is useless to ask me for information that I can not give."

"And why not?"

"Because I should betray a secret that is not my own. If I told you who I am, you would soon know the woman I wish to save."

"You hope to die like Campi, who was executed without any one having been able to discover his real name. Your case does not resemble his in the least, however."

"No, certainly not, and I shall die in an entirely different way, but I shall die unknown."

This was said in a tone that made M. Robergeot wonder if he were not dealing with a madman. "But your deposition must be signed," said he.

"Oh! I am quite ready to acknowledge in writing that I have told the truth, and that I have nothing to retract, but I shall sign the first name that occurs to me."

The magistrate felt that it was time to put an end to this discussion. He knew that time and solitude overcome the most stubborn resistance; besides, the presence of the two friends was a constraint upon him. "So be it," said he. "I shall question you again, however, after you have had time for reflection. In the meantime, you can write your acknowledgment, after first reading the deposition you have just made."

The stranger thereupon rose up, approached the clerk's table, took a pen, and then at the bottom of the last page of the report of his evidence he wrote these words: "I declare that I persist in my statements correctly recorded above: that I alone, and of my own free will, killed Pierre Dargental; that no one prompted me to commit the crime, and that no one knew I was the perpetrator of the murder, until I made the above confession in the presence of Monsieur Robergeot, and of two gentlemen unknown to me."

He then handed the document to the magistrate, who, after glancing at it, said quietly: "Very well. You will now be taken to the dÉpÔt."

But all at once the man retreated to the wall, which was only three or four steps from him, put his hand in his overcoat pocket, and drew out a weapon that elicited an exclamation of dismay from the magistrate. This weapon was one of those old-fashioned horse pistols, rarely seen now-a-days, and before any one could reach the stranger, he had raised this fire-arm to his head and pulled the trigger. A loud explosion shook the walls; a cloud of smoke filled the office, and drops of warm blood spurted in Puymirol's face. The murderer was lying motionless at the foot of the wall—dead. The witnesses of this sudden suicide stood for a moment overcome with horror. The guard, who had escorted Puymirol into the room, looked as white as a sheet, though he was an old soldier. The clerk, in his alarm, had entered the office without waiting for M. Robergeot to ring. "Fetch the commissary of police on duty here in the palace," said the magistrate. "I, myself, will summon the public prosecutor. Your examination is ended for the present, gentlemen. You, Monsieur Caumont, are at liberty to retire, but you must hold yourself in readiness to appear before me at any moment, for this affair is not ended. You, Monsieur de Puymirol, will return to the dÉpÔt, and remain there until I send for you which will be in a short time, probably."

George rushed wildly through the passages, and it was not until he found himself out of doors that he again breathed freely Where could he find Albert? They had parted in the Rue de Medicis, after vainly waiting for Roch PlancoËt to join them in the garden of the Luxembourg. George had, of course, been obliged to follow the messenger sent to conduct him before the magistrate; and Albert had parted from him with a cheery: "I'll see you again to-morrow." But George now wanted to see the young officer at once; for the man who had just blown his brains out in the presence of the two friends was Roch PlancoËt, and it had cost George no little effort to conceal his emotion on seeing him enter M. Robergeot's office. Why had he killed himself? and why had he declared to George's profound astonishment that he was Dargental's murderer? Evidently to spare Gabrielle the pain of knowing her mother's disgrace. But what a strange means he had employed! Could he have really believed that the authorities would always remain ignorant of his name? He had certainly disfigured himself beyond power of recognition, but justice possesses other means of establishing a person's identity. Besides, was his statement really correct? The story of the agents despatched to watch him by M. Rochas was very extraordinary, and yet, otherwise, why had he thrown the pocket-book into the cab? Whilst thus reflecting, George Caumont reached the Place Saint-Michel. Some omnibuses there barred his passage, and while waiting to pass, he saw Madame Verdon approaching him. He tried to avoid her, but it was too late. She called to him, and said: "Well, are you satisfied? You have leagued yourself with Albert and Gabrielle, I see, so as to force me to leave Paris, and you have even sent Monsieur PlancoËt to me with your orders. You deserve to marry a girl who rebels against her mother. However, farewell, and good luck to you," she added, with a sneering laugh. "I have just been to PlancoËt's notary and have left him my written consent to your marriage. Monsieur Rochas is waiting for me, and I must make haste if I want to catch the express for Rome, via Florence."

With these concluding words, she entered a passing cab, leaving George amazed and indignant beyond expression. On his way up the Boulevard Saint-Michel he was obliged to pass Madame Verdon's residence, and he felt strongly tempted to enter it. Gabrielle was there, no doubt, but what should he say to her? How could he explain to her, her mother's conduct, and acquaint her with the tragical death of her old friend, Roch? It would certainly be better to allow her brother time to prepare her for this blow. Accordingly he walked straight on to the Rue de Medicis. Here his doorkeeper handed him a note from Albert which ran as follows: "Everything has been arranged. I have seen my sister, and this evening I shall take her to the house of Madame de Brangue, my colonel's wife, who will act as her chaperon for the present. Call on me to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, at the HÔtel de l'Empereur Joseph, in the Rue de Tournon. Try to find PlancoËt before you come, and bring him with you. His visit to my mother accomplished wonders. What a friend we have in him! He has saved us all."

"At the cost of his life!" murmured George, sorrowfully, for he did not share the illusions of his future brother-in-law.

However, he was punctual in keeping the appointment that Albert had made with him for the following morning, and on reaching the hotel he found the lieutenant smoking a cigar in his room. The first words that the young officer articulated were: "Where is PlancoËt? Didn't you bring him with you?"

George shook his head. He did not know how to break the terrible news to his prospective brother-in-law. "PlancoËt will never come," he at last said, sadly.

"Why? has any accident happened to him?"

George was about to reply that he was dead, when one of the hotel servants entered with a letter which he handed to Albert. "Why, this note is from Roch," exclaimed the young officer in astonishment. "How strange for him to write instead of coming to see me. The letter must have been posted yesterday evening. Let us see what he has to say."

He broke the seal, and drew from the envelope two sheets of paper which George had only to glance at, to recognise the letters of Blanche Pornic and the countess. Albert laid them on the table and then opening the missive from PlancoËt which accompanied them, he read aloud as follows: "'My dear boy,—You, as yet, only know a part of the truth, and you must know it all. You will henceforth be the head of the family; and until your sister marries, you will be responsible for her, for I shall not be at hand to watch over her.'"

"Why, what can he be driving at?" exclaimed the lieutenant. "Roch is the best fellow in the world, but he has a fondness for making a mystery out of everything.

"'I am sure that your mother will yield,'" he continued, resuming his perusual, "'and it is hardly probable that you will ever see her again. That is why, before I go to see her, I wish to make you clearly understand the part she has played in an affair which has proved so terrible in its consequences to us all, and to me especially. I need not revert to the past, nor need I speak of your mother's fault. I can only plead extenuating circumstances on her behalf. While your poor father lived she did not fail in her duty. She brought you up carefully, your sister and yourself; she even loved you devotedly. It was her husband's death that caused all this misery. Left to herself, and transplanted to Paris, she lacked the strength to resist the many temptations of her new life; and fate willed that she should meet a scoundrel who only thought of profiting by her weakness. He wanted to marry her for her money, but I managed to prevent that, though she fell a willing victim to his fascinations. She finally discovered, however, that she had several rivals in his affections, and a rupture followed. She could not escape from Dargental's persecutions; his demands never ceased, and latterly, they assumed such a threatening character that I resolved to put an end to them. I could not choose my means in doing this. It was absolutely necessary to secure the restitution of a letter which Dargental had threatened to send to Monsieur Rochas, in case your mother did not consent to purchase it at a cost of two hundred thousand francs; and I could not hope to obtain it from Dargental by persuasion. Your mother was terribly frightened, and wished to marry as soon as possible in order to have a protector capable of defending her. I took good care not to say a word to her about the plan which I had formed, and which I executed without anybody's help. I resolved to kill Dargental, and I did kill him!'

"PlancoËt a murderer! impossible!" exclaimed the lieutenant.

"I knew it," murmured George. "Go on to the end, my friend."

Albert was in consternation, but he, nevertheless, continued: "'I killed him, after a violent altercation which would almost justify me in pleading that I only acted in self-defence; but I believe I should have killed him in any case. This man would have cast a shadow over Gabrielle's whole life. He was a disgrace to mankind. I secured the letter which he had intended to use as a weapon against your mother and yourselves, and I left the house; and we should have all been saved but for a strange fatality. When you see Monsieur Caumont again, ask him to explain how he and his friend, Monsieur de Puymirol, came into possession of the pocket-book I had taken from Dargental, and tell him that I was the person who threw that pocket-book into their cab. He will guess the rest, and explain everything to you. I enclose in this note the letters written by the two ladies I do not know. I keep the third, which will be useful to me in negotiating with your mother. If she accepts the conditions we have agreed to impose upon her—as I have no doubt she will—I shall leave her letter with Monsieur Berlier, my notary, who resides at No. 7 on the Quai Saint-Michel, with instructions to give it to your mother in exchange for her written consent to your sister's marriage with Monsieur Caumont.'"

"The exchange has been effected," said George. "I met your mother as she was leaving the notary's office."

"'And this is what I have resolved to do, whatever the result may be:'" resumed Albert, still reading PlancoËt's letter: "'Monsieur Caumont's most intimate friend has been arrested, and is still in prison, charged with a crime of which he is innocent. He shall not remain there any longer. I will not permit it. I shall call upon the magistrate this very day, and inform him that it was I who killed Dargental. He will ask me why I killed him, and I shall be obliged to invent some story that will screen your mother from suspicion. He will also ask my name; but I shall refuse to give it, and I shall kill myself in the magistrate's presence.'"

"He must have been crazy when he wrote that," said Albert.

"He did kill himself, I saw him do so," rejoined George.

"Good heavens! is it true? you were present at the time?"

"Yes," said Caumont; and he forthwith related all that had taken place in the magistrate's office.

"Poor Roch!" murmured the lieutenant, dashing away a tear. "He sacrificed his life for our sake, I see that. But I have not finished his letter; let me read on to the end: 'I mean to shoot myself in such a way that I shall be absolutely disfigured. There are no marks on my linen, no tailor's name on my clothes: I have even pulled the lining out of my hat so that my identity will always remain a mystery for the officials. My notary will hand you a power of attorney enabling you to attend to my affairs, for I have told him and the doorkeeper at my house that I am going to America. Nobody will pay any attention to my disappearance. Believe me when I say that your mother is quite guiltless in all this. Puymirol also; Rochas, too, knew nothing about it, though Dargental had sent him anonymous letters, and he was having me watched, believing me to be your mother's lover. Dargental would have brought disgrace upon you all. He would not have stopped at anything: he was so very furious that he could not obtain a large sum of money from your mother. There was but one course to follow—to put him out of the way—and I adopted it. And now, God bless you! Think of me sometimes. Give Caumont Gabrielle's portrait which hangs in my sitting-room. Good-bye, my dear Albert, my last thought will be for you all.'"

A spell of silence followed this perusal. There were tears in the young men's eyes. However, finally, Caumont remarked: "It seems as though Roch's suicide will really end the investigation. His body will not be identified, and the affair will be forgotten, providing we prevent any imprudent act calculated to revive it."

"An imprudent act! We shall certainly not commit any."

"No; but we can't foresee what the writers of those letters will do. Even now, they may be shuddering at the thought of being compromised; and fear is a bad adviser."

"You are right, and I think it would be as well to return the letters to them immediately—the sooner the better. Let us take a cab, and call on them."

Caumont assented; and five minutes later, he and Albert were rolling through the streets of Paris, bound first for Blanche's rooms in the Avenue de Messine, and thence for the Lescombat mansion near the Parc Monceau.

---

But little more now remains to be told; Blanche received her letter, and the countess received hers; and both missives were duly burnt without delay. Three weeks after Roch PlancoËt's death, George and Gabrielle were married at the church of St. Sulpice. The bride was, perhaps, a trifle sad as her brother and her happy spouse had been obliged to inform her of Roch's suicide, and even amid her bliss, she could not entirely forget the worthy old friend, who had sacrificed himself for her and hers. M. Robergeot had failed to penetrate the identity of Dargental's murderer, so thorough had been the precautions which Roch had taken; and to the authorities, if not to our readers, the crime of the Boulevard Haussmann still remains a puzzling mystery.

Madame Verdon is now married. She was united at Florence to M. Rochas, who rules her with an iron hand. Puymirol, having been duly released, has converted his Aunt BessÈges's property into cash and left for New York, where he hopes to find a rich wife, but the Americans are shrewd, and his sanguine expectations may not be realised. Poor Charles Balmer is furious. A celebrated physician has just informed him that he has thirty more years to live, and he has only money enough left to last him eighteen months. Albert is fast becoming an able officer, and is daily expecting promotion; while as for George and Gabrielle they are really happy, and still remember Roch PlancoËt, who died to insure them a peaceful, unclouded life.

THE END.

S. Cowan & Co., Printers, Perth.