of these days."

"The details are not many," pursued Obenreizer. "My troubles begin with
the accidental death of my late travelling companion, my lost dear friend
Mr. Vendale."

"Mr. Vendale," repeated the notary. "Just so. I have heard and read of
the name, several times within these two months. The name of the
unfortunate English gentleman who was killed on the Simplon. When you
got that scar upon your cheek and neck."

"--From my own knife," said Obenreizer, touching what must have been an
ugly gash at the time of its infliction.

"From your own knife," assented the notary, "and in trying to save him.
Good, good, good. That was very good. Vendale. Yes. I have several
times, lately, thought it droll that I should once have had a client of
that name."

"But the world, sir," returned Obenreizer, "is _so_ small!" Nevertheless
he made a mental note that the notary had once had a client of that name.

"As I was saying, sir, the death of that dear travelling comrade begins
my troubles. What follows? I save myself. I go down to Milan. I am
received with coldness by Defresnier and Company. Shortly afterwards, I
am discharged by Defresnier and Company. Why? They give no reason why.
I ask, do they assail my honour? No answer. I ask, what is the
imputation against me? No answer. I ask, where are their proofs against
me? No answer. I ask, what am I to think? The reply is, 'M. Obenreizer
is free to think what he will. What M. Obenreizer thinks, is of no
importance to Defresnier and Company.' And that is all."

"Perfectly. That is all," asserted the notary, taking a large pinch of
snuff.

"But is that enough, sir?"

"That is not enough," said Maitre Voigt. "The House of Defresnier are my
fellow townsmen--much respected, much esteemed--but the House of
Defresnier must not silently destroy a man's character. You can rebut
assertion. But how can you rebut silence?"

"Your sense of justice, my dear patron," answered Obenreizer, "states in
a word the cruelty of the case. Does it stop there? No. For, what
follows upon that?"

"True, my poor boy," said the notary, with a comforting nod or two; "your
ward rebels upon that."

"Rebels is too soft a word," retorted Obenreizer. "My ward revolts from
me with horror. My ward defies me. My ward withdraws herself from my
authority, and takes shelter (Madame Dor with her) in the house of that
English lawyer, Mr. Bintrey, who replies to your summons