e appeared not to hear, and it was Raoul who replaced the key in the
box from which he had seen her take it.

He then led or rather carried Madame Fauvel to the little drawing-room
where he had found her upon his arrival, and placed her in an
easy-chair. The utter prostration of this unhappy woman, her fixed
eyes, and her loss of expression, revealed only too well the agony of
her mind. Raoul, frightened, asked if she had gone mad?

"Come, mother dear," he said, as he tried to warm her icy hands, "come
to yourself. You have saved my life, and we have both rendered a great
service to Prosper. Fear nothing: all will come straight. Prosper will
be accused, perhaps arrested. He expects that; but he will deny it,
and as his guilt cannot be proved, he will be released."

But his lies and his efforts were lost upon Madame Fauvel, who was too
distracted to hear them.

"Raoul," she murmured, "my son, you have killed me!"

Her voice was so impressive in its sorrow, her tone was so tender in
its despair, that Raoul was affected, and even decided to restore the
stolen money. But the thought of Clameran returned.

Then, noticing that Madame Fauvel remained in her chair, bewildered
and as still as death, trembling at the thought that M. Fauvel or
Madeleine might enter at any moment, he pressed a kiss upon his
mother's forehead--and fled.

Translated for 'A Library of the World's Best Literature.'

M. LECOQ'S SYSTEM

From 'File No. 113'

In the centre of a large and curiously furnished room, half library
and half actor's study, was seated at a desk the same person wearing
gold spectacles who had said at the police station to the accused
cashier Prosper Bertomy, "Take courage!" This was M. Lecoq in his
official character.

Upon the entrance of Fanferlot, who advanced respectfully, curving his
backbone as he bowed, M. Lecoq slightly lifted his head and laid down
his pen, saying, "Ah! you have come at last, my boy! Well, you don't
seem to be progressing with the Bertomy case."

"Why, really," stammered Fanferlot, "you know--"

"I know that you have muddled everything, until you are so blinded
that you are ready to give over."

"But master, it was not I--"

M. Lecoq had arisen and was pacing the floor. Suddenly he stopped
before Fanferlot, nicknamed "the Squirrel."

"What do you think, Master Squirrel," he asked in a hard and ironical
tone, "of a man who abuses the confidence of those who employ him,