“What a fearful day this has been!” groaned the unhappy man.  “I ate much too heavy a breakfast, I have been terribly excited, and came here a great deal too fast.  A fit of passion caused by a servant’s insolence, joy at seeing you, then a sudden interruption to what I was going to say, are a great deal more than sufficient to cause a serious illness at my age.”

But the Count, who was usually most considerate of his friend’s foibles, was not in a humor to listen to him.

“Come, let us talk sense,” said he sharply; “tell me what has occurred.”

“Occurred!” groaned De Clinchain; “oh, nothing, except that the whole truth is known regarding what took place in the little wood so many years back.  I had an anonymous letter this morning, threatening me with all sorts of terrible consequences if I do not hinder you from marrying your daughter to De Breulh.  The rogues say that they can prove everything.”

“Have you the letter with you?”

De Clinchain drew the missive from his pocket.  It was to the full as threatening as he had said; but M. de Mussidan knew all its contents beforehand.

“Have you examined your diary, and are the three leaves really missing?”

“They are.”

“How were they stolen?  Are you sure of your servants?”

“Certainly; my valet has been sixteen years in my service.  You know Lorin?  The volumes of my diary are always locked up in the escritoire, the key of which never leaves me.  And none of the other servants ever enter my room.”

“Some one must have done so, however.”

Clinchain struck his forehead, as though an idea had suddenly flashed across his brain.

“I can partly guess,” said he.  “Some time ago Lorin went for a holiday, and got drunk with some fellows he picked up in the train.  Drink brought on fighting, and he was so knocked about that he was laid up for some weeks.  He had a severe knife wound in the shoulder and was much bruised.”

“Who took his place?”

“A young fellow that my groom got at a servants’ registry office.”

M. de Mussidan felt that he was on the right track, for he remembered that the man who had called on him had had the audacity to leave a card, on which was marked: 

“B.  MASCARIN,

“Servants’ Registry Office,
“Rue Montorgueil.”

“Do you know where this place is?” asked he.

“Certainly; in the Rue du Dauphin nearly opposite to my house.”

The Count swore a deep oath.  “The rogues are very wily; but, my dear fellow if you are ready, we will defy the storm together.”

De Clinchain felt a cold tremor pass through his whole frame at this proposal.

“Not I,” said he; “do not try and persuade me.  If you have come to this decision, let me know at once, and I will go home and finish it all with a pistol bullet.”

He was just the sort of nervous, timorous man to do exactly as he said, and would sooner have killed himself than endure all kinds of annoyance, which might impair his digestion.