“Monsieur desires proofs, does he? Monsieur shall certainly have
convincing ones. I have just left a friend of mine, M. Palot, who
brought me valuable information from London. Now, my young gentleman,
I will tell you the little story he told me, and then you can give your
opinion of it.
“In 1847 Lord Murray, a wealthy and generous nobleman, had a jockey
named Spencer, of whom he was very fond. At the Epsom races, this jockey
was thrown from his horse, and killed. Lord Murray grieved over the
loss of his favorite, and, having no children of his own, declared his
intention of adopting Spencer’s son, who was then but four years old.
“Thus James Spencer was brought up in affluence, as heir to the immense
wealth of the noble lord. He was a handsome, intelligent boy, and gave
satisfaction to his protector until he was sixteen years of age; when he
became intimate with a worthless set of people, and turned out badly.
“Lord Murray, who was very indulgent, pardoned many grave faults; but
one fine morning he discovered that his adopted son had been imitating
his signature upon some checks. He indignantly dismissed him from the
house, and told him never to show his face again.
“James Spencer had been living in London about four years, managing to
support himself by gambling and swindling, when he met Clameran, who
offered him twenty-five thousand francs to play a part in a little
comedy which he had arranged to suit the actors.”
“You are a detective!” interrupted Raoul.
The fat man smiled grimly.
“At present,” he replied, “I am merely a friend of Prosper Bertomy. It
depends entirely upon your behavior which character I appear in while
settling up this little affair.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Restore the three hundred and fifty thousand francs which you have
stolen.”
The young rascal hesitated a moment, and then said:
“The money is in this room.”
“Very good. This frankness is creditable, and will benefit you. I know
that the money is in this room, and also exactly where it is to be
found. Be kind enough to look behind that cupboard, and you will find
the three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”
Raoul saw that his game was lost. He tremblingly went to the cupboard,
and pulled out several bundles of bank-notes, and an enormous package of
pawn-broker’s tickets.
“Very well done,” said M. Verduret, as he carefully examined the money
and papers: “this is the most sensible step you ever took.”
Raoul relied on this moment, when everybody’s attention would be
absorbed by the money, to make his escape. He slid toward the door,
gently opened it, slipped out, and locked it on the outside; the key
being still in the lock.
“He has escaped!” cried M. Fauvel.
“Naturally,” replied M. Verduret, without even looking up: “I thought he
would have sense enough to do that.”
“But is he to go unpunished?”
“My dear sir, would you have this affair become a public scandal? Do you
wish your wife’s name to be brought into a case of this nature before
the police-court?”
“Oh, monsieur!”
“Then the best thing you can do, is to let the rascal go scot free. Here
are receipts for all the articles which he has pawned, so that we should
consider ourselves fortunate. He has kept fifty thousand francs, but
that is all the better for you. This sum will enable him to leave
France, and we shall never see him again.”
Like everyone else, M. Fauvel yielded to the ascendancy of M. Verduret.
Gradually he had awakened to the true state of affairs; prospective
happiness no longer seemed impossible, and he felt that he was indebted
to the man before him for more than life. But for M. Verduret, where
would have been his honor and domestic peace?
With earnest gratitude he seized M. Verduret’s hand as if to carry it to
his lips, and said, in broken tones:
“Oh, monsieur! how can I ever find words to express how deeply I
appreciate your kindness? How can I ever repay the great service you
have rendered me?”