."

The words followed me as I left the room. It seemed that John Turner
believed in no man.

There was nothing for it but to return to the Rue des Palmiers, and
tell the Baron that I had failed to find my patron. The cab I had
hired was awaiting me, and in a few minutes I was rattling across the
bridge of the Holy Fathers.

"Monsieur le Vicomte returned a few minutes ago," the butler told me.
"He has gone to the study, and is now with the Baron Giraud. The
Vicomte asked that you should go to him at once."

The atmosphere of the old house seemed gloomy and full of foreboding
as I ran up the stairs. The servant stood at the open door and watched
me. In that unknown world behind the green baize door more is known
than we suspect, and there is often no surprise there when we who live
above stairs are dumbfounded.

In my haste I forgot to knock at Monsieur de Clericy's door before
opening it--indeed, I think it was ajar.

"My good friend," I heard as I entered the room, "collect yourself. Be
calm. We are together in a great misfortune--the money has been
stolen!"

The voice was that of my patron. I went in and closed the door behind
me. For it seemed, to my fancy, that there were other doors ajar upon
the landing, and listeners on the stairs.

The two old men were facing each other, the one purple in the visage,
with starting eyes, the other white and quiet.

"Stolen?" echoed the Baron in a thick voice, and with a wild look
round the room. "Then I am ruined!"

The old Vicomte spread out his trembling hands in despair, a gesture
that seemed to indicate a crumbling away of the world beneath us.

The Baron Giraud turned and looked at me. He did not recognise me for
quite ten seconds.

[Illustration: "IT IS DEATH," I ANSWERED, WITH MY HAND INSIDE THE
BARON'S SHIRT. "WHO STOLE THAT MONEY?" THE VICOMTE LOOKED AT ME.
"CHARLES MISTE," HE SAID.]

"Then it is not you," he said, thickly. "As you are there. You did not
steal it."

"No--I did not steal it," I answered quietly, for there was a look in
his face that I did not understand, while it frightened me. Suddenly
his eyes shot red--his face was almost black. He fell forward into my
arms, and I tore his collar off as I laid him to the ground.

"Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" the Vicomte was crying as he ran hither and
thither, wringing his hands, while I attended, unskillfully enough, to
the stricken man. "Ah, mon Dieu! what is this?"

"It is death," I answered, with