than fifty times in three years."

"If that is so, she must be known there."

"No."

"But"--

"Paris is not like Sauveterre, my dear friend; and people are not solely
occupied with their neighbors' doings. Vine Street is quite a deserted
street; and the countess took the greatest precautions in coming and
going."

"Well, granted, as far as the outside world is concerned. But within?
You must have had somebody to stay in the house and keep it in order
when you were away, and to wait upon you when you were there?"

"I had an English maid-servant."

"Well, this girl must know the countess?"

"She has never caught a glimpse of her even."

"Oh!"

"When the countess was coming down, or when she was going away, or when
we wanted to walk in the garden, I sent the girl on some errand. I have
sent her as far as Orleans to get rid of her for twenty-four hours. The
rest of the time we staid up stairs, and waited upon ourselves."

Evidently M. Magloire was suffering. He said,--

"You must be under a mistake. Servants are curious, and to hide from
them is only to make them mad with curiosity. That girl has watched you.
That girl has found means to see the countess when she came there. She
must be examined. Is she still in your service?"

"No, she left me when the war broke out."

"Why?"

"She wanted to return to England."

"Then we cannot hope to find her again?"

"I believe not."

"We must give it up, then. But your man-servant? Old Anthony was in your
confidence. Did you never tell him any thing about it?"

"Never. Only once I sent for him to come to Vine Street when I had
sprained my foot in coming down stairs."

"So that it is impossible for you to prove that the Countess Claudieuse
ever came to your house in Passy? You have no evidence of it, and no
eye-witness?"

"I used to have evidence. She had brought a number of small articles for
her private use; but they have disappeared during the war."

"Ah, yes!" said M. Magloire, "always the war! It has to answer for every
thing."

Never had any of M. Galpin's examinations been half as painful to
Jacques de Boiscoran as this series of quick questions, which betrayed
such distressing incredulity.

"Did I not tell you, Magloire," he resumed, "that the countess had a
genius for prudence? You can easily conceal yourself when you can spend
money without counting it. Would you blame me for not having any proofs
to furnish? Is it not the duty of every man of