has dared to go
to the railway station again."

About half way down the Rue Richelieu, M. Tabaret was seized with a
sudden giddiness.

"I am going to have an attack, I fear," thought he. "If I die, Noel
will escape, and will be my heir. A man should always keep his will
constantly with him, to be able to destroy it, if necessary."

A few steps further on, he saw a doctor's plate on a door; he stopped
the cab, and rushed into the house. He was so excited, so beside
himself, his eyes had such a wild expression, that the doctor was almost
afraid of his peculiar patient, who said to him hoarsely: "Bleed me!"

The doctor ventured an objection; but already the old fellow had taken
off his coat, and drawn up one of his shirtsleeves.

"Bleed me!" he repeated. "Do you want me to die?"

The doctor finally obeyed, and old Tabaret came out quieted and
relieved.

An hour later, armed with the necessary power, and accompanied by a
policeman, he proceeded to the lost property office at the St. Lazare
railway station, to make the necessary search. It resulted as he had
expected. He learnt that, on the evening of Shrove Tuesday, there had
been found in one of the second class carriages, of train No. 45, an
overcoat and an umbrella. He was shown the articles; and he at once
recognised them as belonging to Noel. In one of the pockets of the
overcoat, he found a pair of lavender kid gloves, frayed and soiled, as
well as a return ticket from Chatou, which had not been used.

In hurrying on, in pursuit of the truth, old Tabaret knew only too well,
what it was. His conviction, unwillingly formed when Clergeot had told
him of Noel's follies, had since been strengthened in a number of other
ways. When with Juliette, he had felt positively sure, and yet, at this
last moment, when doubt had become impossible, he was, on beholding the
evidence arrayed against Noel, absolutely thunderstruck.

"Onwards!" he cried at last. "Now to arrest him."

And, without losing an instant, he hastened to the Palais de Justice,
where he hoped to find the investigating magistrate. Notwithstanding
the lateness of the hour, M. Daburon was still in his office. He was
conversing with the Count de Commarin, having related to him the facts
revealed by Pierre Lerouge whom the count had believed dead many years
before.

Old Tabaret entered like a whirlwind, too distracted to notice the
presence of a stranger.

"Sir," he cried, stuttering with suppressed rage