auty
over their delicate features; mourning and sombre costume wrapt around
them the gravity of sorrow and the adulation of a universal sympathy,
pretended or real, supplied the attentions that flattered and pleased
when they led the giddy world of fashion. The silence of grief hung
around the magnificent saloons, once so gay; the wardrobe that contained
the costly apparel, the casket that treasured the pearls of Ceylon and
gems of Golconda, were all closed and neglected. The treatment of
their father was an agony of domestic trouble, in which they were tried
as in a furnace.

A few weeks, however, and the darkest hour of the storm had passed.
Moments of relaxation brought beams of sunlight through the dissolving
beams of sunlight through the dissolving clouds; drives, walks, and
even visits were gradually resumed.

A fit of illness brought Cassier to his senses. A forced abstinence
for a few weeks saved him from the last and most terrible lot of
confirmed drunkenness; but ruin was written with his own hand on the
firm that made him wealthy. Quick-footed rumor, that hates the
well-being of man, was abroad at its deadly work; public confidence in
the bank began to wane, and each depositor lent the weight of his
individual interest to accelerate the financial crash. The stone set in
motion down the mountain assumes a force that no power could stay; on it
will go until it rests in the plain From the eminence of his boasted
wealth the usurer found this turn come to whirl around on the wheel of
fortune and yield to some other mortal, who is the toy of fortune, to
grasp for a moment the golden key of avarice and ambition.

At length the crash has come. One of the largest depositors sends
notice that in a week he will withdraw his funds.

Cassier saw ruin staring him in the face; when this sum was paid he
would be a pauper. He would not dig, and in the pride of his heart
he would not beg. Conscience, long seared in the path of impiety, has
no voice to warn, no staff to strike. Cassier, wise in his generation
of dishonesty, knows what he will do, and nerves himself for a
desperate undertaking which leads us deeper and deeper into the history
of crime, into the abysses of iniquity which invoke each other.

In a few days Paris is startled. Cassier has fled, and robbed his
creditors of a million francs.

Chapter X.

On the Trail.

Evening has fallen over the city, and the busy turmoil of the streets
h