popular novelist. But he knew how to write; and there
is a correctness of diction and a nervous vivacity that is much to his
credit, considering the rapidity with which he produced his work, and
the fact that he had no sufficient early training for his profession.
He is seldom slipshod, and he is never really negligent. He has been
criticized for making his denouements too simple, if one regards them
as a whole process; but his details are full of variety, and the
reader of Gaboriau never is troubled to keep his attention on the
author's pages, even in the case of those stories that are not of the
first class among his works. Perhaps the best of all the novels is one
of the shorter ones, 'File No. 113.'

THE IMPOSTOR AND THE BANKER'S WIFE: THE ROBBERY

From 'File No. 113'

Raoul Spencer, supposed to be Raoul de Clameran, began to triumph over
his instincts of revolt. He ran to the door and rang the bell. It
opened.

"Is my aunt at home?" he asked the footman.

"Madame is alone in the boudoir next her room," replied the servant.

Raoul ascended.

Clameran had said to Raoul, "Above all, be careful about your
entrance; your appearance must express everything, and thus you will
avoid impossible explanations."

The suggestion was useless.

When Raoul entered the little reception-room, his pale face and wild
eyes frightened Madame Fauvel, who cried:--

"Raoul! What has happened to you?"

The sound of her gentle voice produced upon the young vagrant the
effect of an electric shock. He trembled from head to foot: yet his
mind was clear; Louis had not been mistaken in him. Raoul continued
his role as if on the stage, and as assurance came to him his knavery
crushed his better nature.

"Mother, the misfortune which has come to me," he replied, "is the
last one."

Madame Fauvel had never seen him like this. Trembling with emotion,
she rose and stood before him, with her tender face near his. She
fixed in a steady gaze the power of her will, as if she meant to read
the depths of his soul.

"What is it?" she insisted. "Raoul, my son, tell me."

He pushed her gently away.

"What has happened," he replied in a choked voice which pierced the
heart of Madame Fauvel, "proves that I am unworthy of you, unworthy of
my noble and generous father."

She moved her head in protestation.

"Ah!" he continued, "I know and judge myself. No one could reproach my
own infamous conduct so cruelly as my own conscience.