“Is not that the room whither I was conducted when I first came?” inquired the commissary.

“The same.”

“I would like to see it,” said Fanferlot, “and examine the entrances to it.”

“Nothing is more easy,” said M. Fauvel, eagerly; “follow me, gentlemen, and you come too, Prosper.”

M. Fauvel’s private office consisted of two rooms; the waiting-room, sumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, and the study where he transacted business.  The furniture in this room was composed of a large office-desk, several leather-covered chairs, and, on either side of the fireplace, a secretary and a book-shelf.

These two rooms had only three doors; one opened on the private stairway, another into the banker’s bedroom, and the third into the main vestibule.  It was through this last door that the banker’s clients and visitors were admitted.

M. Fanferlot examined the study at a glance.  He seemed puzzled, like a man who had flattered himself with the hope of discovering some indication, and had found nothing.

“Let us see the adjoining room,” he said.

He passed into the waiting-room, followed by the banker and the commissary of police.

Prosper remained alone in the study.

Despite the disordered state of his mind, he could not but perceive that his situation was momentarily becoming more serious.

He had demanded and accepted the contest with his chief; the struggle had commenced; and now it no longer depended upon his own will to arrest the consequences of his action.

They were about to engage in a bitter conflict, utilizing all weapons, until one of the two should succumb, the loss of honor being the cost of defeat.

In the eyes of justice, who would be the innocent man?

Alas! the unfortunate cashier saw only too clearly that the chances were terribly unequal, and was overwhelmed with the sense of his own inferiority.

Never had he thought that his chief would carry out his threats; for, in a contest of this nature, M. Fauvel would have as much to risk as his cashier, and more to lose.

He was sitting near the fireplace, absorbed in the most gloomy forebodings, when the banker’s chamber-door suddenly opened, and a beautiful girl appeared on the threshold.

She was tall and slender; a loose morning gown, confined at the waist by a simple black ribbon, betrayed to advantage the graceful elegance of her figure.  Her black eyes were large and soft; her complexion had the creamy pallor of a white camellia; and her beautiful dark hair, carelessly held together by a tortoise-shell comb, fell in a profusion of soft curls upon her exquisite neck.  She was Madeleine, M. Fauvel’s niece, of whom he had spoken not long before.

Seeing Prosper in the study, where probably she expected to find her uncle alone, she could not refrain from an exclamation of surprise.