“I will write to Neuchatel by to-night’s post,” said Vendale, putting away the receipt for the second time.  “We must wait, and see what comes of it.”

“By to-night’s post,” repeated Obenreizer.  “Let me see.  You will get the answer in eight or nine days’ time.  I shall be back before that.  If I can be of any service, as commercial traveller, perhaps you will let me know between this and then.  You will send me written instructions?  My best thanks.  I shall be most anxious for your answer from Neuchatel.  Who knows?  It may be a mistake, my dear friend, after all.  Courage! courage! courage!” He had entered the room with no appearance of being pressed for time.  He now snatched up his hat, and took his leave with the air of a man who had not another moment to lose.

Left by himself, Vendale took a turn thoughtfully in the room.

His previous impression of Obenreizer was shaken by what he had heard and seen at the interview which had just taken place.  He was disposed, for the first time, to doubt whether, in this case, he had not been a little hasty and hard in his judgment on another man.  Obenreizer’s surprise and regret, on hearing the news from Neuchatel, bore the plainest marks of being honestly felt—­not politely assumed for the occasion.  With troubles of his own to encounter, suffering, to all appearance, from the first insidious attack of a serious illness, he had looked and spoken like a man who really deplored the disaster that had fallen on his friend.  Hitherto Vendale had tried vainly to alter his first opinion of Marguerite’s guardian, for Marguerite’s sake.  All the generous instincts in his nature now combined together and shook the evidence which had seemed unanswerable up to this time.  “Who knows?” he thought.  “I may have read that man’s face wrongly, after all.”

The time passed—­the happy evenings with Marguerite came and went.  It was again the tenth morning since Vendale had written to the Swiss firm; and again the answer appeared on his desk with the other letters of the day: 

“Dear Sir.  My senior partner, M. Defresnier, has been called away, by urgent business, to Milan.  In his absence (and with his full concurrence and authority), I now write to you again on the subject of the missing five hundred pounds.

“Your discovery that the forged receipt is executed upon one of our numbered and printed forms has caused inexpressible surprise and distress to my partner and to myself.  At the time when your remittance was stolen, but three keys were in existence opening the strong-box in which our receipt-forms are invariably kept.  My partner had one key; I had the other.  The third was in the possession of a gentleman who, at that period, occupied a position of trust in our house.  We should as soon have thought of suspecting one of ourselves as of suspecting this person.  Suspicion now points at him, nevertheless.