my hand inside the Baron's shirt. "Who
stole that money?"

The Vicomte looked at me.

"Charles Miste," he said.

Chapter XI

Theft

"La fortune ne laisse rien perdre pour les hommes heureux."

I thus returned Alphonse Giraud's visit sooner than either of us
anticipated, for I had to go and tell him what had happened in the Rue
des Palmiers. I delivered my news in as few words as possible, and
cannot tell how he took the evil tidings, for when I had spoken I
walked to the window, and there stood looking down into the street.

"Have you told me all?" asked Giraud at length, wondering, perhaps,
that I lingered.

"No."

I turned and faced him, the little French dandy, in his stiff collar
and patent-leather boots--no bigger than a girl's. The politeness of
our previous intercourse seemed to have fallen away from us.

"No--I have not told you all. It seems likely that you, like myself,
have been left a poor man."

"Then we have one reason more for being good friends," said Giraud, in
his quick French way.

He rose and looked round the room.

"All the same, I have had a famous time," he said. "Come, let us go to
my father."

We found the Hotel Clericy in that state of hushed expectation which
follows the dread visit in palace and hut alike. The servants seemed
to have withdrawn to their own quarters to discuss the event in
whispers there. We found the Vicomte in my study, still much agitated
and broken. He was sitting in my chair, the tears yet wet upon his
wrinkled cheek. There was a quick look of alertness in his eyes, as if
the scythe had hissed close by in reaping the mature grain.

"Ah! my poor boy--my poor boy," he cried when he saw Alphonse, and
they embraced after the manner of their race.

"And it is all my fault," continued the broken old man, wringing his
hands and sinking into his chair again.

"No!" cried Alphonse, with characteristic energy. "We surely cannot
say that, without questioning--well--a wiser judgment than ours."

He paused, and perhaps remembered dimly some of the teaching of a
good, simple bourgeoise who had died before her husband fingered gold.
I sought to quiet the Vicomte also. Old men, like old clothes, need
gentle handling. I sat down at my table and began to write.

"What are you doing?" asked the Vicomte, sharply.

"I am telegraphing to Madame de Clericy to return home."

There was a silence in the room while I wrote out the message and
despatched it