At eight, smoothly and softly and silently the door opened.

One after another, he read the names on the outer rows of boxes.  No such name as Vendale!  He removed the outer row, and looked at the row behind.  These were older boxes, and shabbier boxes.  The four first that he examined, were inscribed with French and German names.  The fifth bore a name which was almost illegible.  He brought it out into the room, and examined it closely.  There, covered thickly with time-stains and dust, was the name:  “Vendale.”

The key hung to the box by a string.  He unlocked the box, took out four loose papers that were in it, spread them open on the table, and began to read them.  He had not so occupied a minute, when his face fell from its expression of eagerness and avidity, to one of haggard astonishment and disappointment.  But, after a little consideration, he copied the papers.  He then replaced the papers, replaced the box, closed the door, extinguished the candle, and stole away.

As his murderous and thievish footfall passed out of the garden, the steps of the notary and some one accompanying him stopped at the front door of the house.  The lamps were lighted in the little street, and the notary had his door-key in his hand.

“Pray do not pass my house, Mr. Bintrey,” he said.  “Do me the honour to come in.  It is one of our town half-holidays—­our Tir—­but my people will be back directly.  It is droll that you should ask your way to the Hotel of me.  Let us eat and drink before you go there.”

“Thank you; not to-night,” said Bintrey.  “Shall I come to you at ten to-morrow?”

“I shall be enchanted, sir, to take so early an opportunity of redressing the wrongs of my injured client,” returned the good notary.

“Yes,” retorted Bintrey; “your injured client is all very well—­but—­a word in your ear.”

He whispered to the notary and walked off.  When the notary’s housekeeper came home, she found him standing at his door motionless, with the key still in his hand, and the door unopened.

OBENREIZER’S VICTORY

The scene shifts again—­to the foot of the Simplon, on the Swiss side.

In one of the dreary rooms of the dreary little inn at Brieg, Mr. Bintrey and Maitre Voigt sat together at a professional council of two.  Mr. Bintrey was searching in his despatch-box.  Maitre Voigt was looking towards a closed door, painted brown to imitate mahogany, and communicating with an inner room.

“Isn’t it time he was here?” asked the notary, shifting his position, and glancing at a second door at the other end of the room, painted yellow to imitate deal.

“He is here,” answered Bintrey, after listening for a moment.

The yellow door was opened by a waiter, and Obenreizer walked in.

After greeting Maitre Voigt with a cordiality which appeared to cause the notary no little embarrassment, Obenreizer bowed with grave and distant politeness to Bintrey.  “For what reason have I been brought from Neuchatel to the foot of the mountain?” he inquired, taking the seat which the English lawyer had indicated to him.