“You call me, sir?”

“My dear Felix,” replied the commissary, “I have seen you, sometimes, imitate very nicely all sorts of hand-writings.”

The secretary blushed very much, no doubt on account of Maxence, who was sitting by the side of his employer.  He was a very honest fellow; but there are certain little talents of which people do not like to boast; and the talent of imitating the writing of others is of the number, for the reason, that, fatally and at once, it suggests the idea of forgery.

“It was only for fun that I used to do that, sir,” he stammered.

“Would you be here if it had been otherwise?” said the commissary.  “Only this time it is not for fun, but to do me a favor that I wish you to try again.”

And, taking out of his pocket the letter taken by M. de Tregars from the man in the restaurant,

“Examine this writing,” he said, “and see whether you feel capable of imitating it tolerably well.”

Spreading the letter under the full light of the lamp, the secretary spent at least two minutes examining it with the minute attention of an expert.  And at the same time he was muttering,

“Not at all convenient, this.  Hard writing to imitate.  Not a salient feature, not a characteristic sign!  Nothing to strike the eye, or attract attention.  It must be some old lawyer’s clerk who wrote this.”

In spite of his anxiety of mind, the commissary smiled.

“I shouldn’t be surprised if you had guessed right.”

Thus encouraged,

“At any rate,” Felix declared, “I am going to try.”

He took a pen, and, after trying a dozen times,

“How is this?” he asked, holding out a sheet of paper.

The commissary carefully compared the original with the copy.

“It is not perfect,” he murmured; “but at night, with the imagination excited by a great peril—­Besides, we must risk something.”

“If I had a few hours to practise!”

“But you have not.  Come, take up your pen, and write as well as you can, in that same hand, what I am going to tell you.”

And after a moment’s thought, he dictated as follows: 

“All goes well.  T. drawn into a quarrel, is to fight in the morning with swords.  But our man, whom I cannot leave, refuses to go ahead, unless he is paid two thousand francs before the duel.  I have not the amount.  Please hand it to the bearer, who has orders to wait for you.”

The commissary, leaning over his secretary’s shoulder, was following his hand, and, the last word being written,

“Perfect!” he exclaimed.  “Now quick, the address:  Mme. la Baronne de Thaller, Rue de le Pepiniere.”

There are professions which extinguish, in those who exercise them, all curiosity.  It is with the most complete indifference, and without asking a question, that the secretary had done what he had been requested.