Obenreizer took the pen in silence, and signed his niece’s release.  On receiving the indemnity in return, he rose, but made no movement to leave the room.  He stood looking at Maitre Voigt with a strange smile gathering at his lips, and a strange light flashing in his filmy eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Bintrey.

Obenreizer pointed to the brown door.  “Call them back,” he answered.  “I have something to say in their presence before I go.”

“Say it in my presence,” retorted Bintrey.  “I decline to call them back.”

Obenreizer turned to Maitre Voigt.  “Do you remember telling me that you once had an English client named Vendale?” he asked.

“Well,” answered the notary.  “And what of that?”

“Maitre Voigt, your clock-lock has betrayed you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have read the letters and certificates in your client’s box.  I have taken copies of them.  I have got the copies here.  Is there, or is there not, a reason for calling them back?”

For a moment the notary looked to and fro, between Obenreizer and Bintrey, in helpless astonishment.  Recovering himself, he drew his brother-lawyer aside, and hurriedly spoke a few words close at his ear.  The face of Bintrey—­after first faithfully reflecting the astonishment on the face of Maitre Voigt—­suddenly altered its expression.  He sprang, with the activity of a young man, to the door of the inner room, entered it, remained inside for a minute, and returned followed by Marguerite and Vendale.  “Now, Mr. Obenreizer,” said Bintrey, “the last move in the game is yours.  Play it.”

“Before I resign my position as that young lady’s guardian,” said Obenreizer, “I have a secret to reveal in which she is interested.  In making my disclosure, I am not claiming her attention for a narrative which she, or any other person present, is expected to take on trust.  I am possessed of written proofs, copies of originals, the authenticity of which Maitre Voigt himself can attest.  Bear that in mind, and permit me to refer you, at starting, to a date long past—­the month of February, in the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six.”

“Mark the date, Mr. Vendale,” said Bintrey.

“My first proof,” said Obenreizer, taking a paper from his pocket-book.  “Copy of a letter, written by an English lady (married) to her sister, a widow.  The name of the person writing the letter I shall keep suppressed until I have done.  The name of the person to whom the letter is written I am willing to reveal.  It is addressed to ’Mrs. Jane Anne Miller, of Groombridge Wells, England.’”

Vendale started, and opened his lips to speak.  Bintrey instantly stopped him, as he had stopped Maitre Voigt.  “No,” said the pertinacious lawyer.  “Leave it to me.”

Obenreizer went on: