“Think of my agony,” he said, “if I were to cause my father’s arrest.”

“Would my own be less?  Can any misfortune strike you without reaching me?  Let us reason a little.  What were you saying a moment since?  That certainly your father is not as guilty as people think; at any rate, that he is not alone guilty; that he has been but the instrument of rascals more skillful and more powerful than himself; and that he has had but a small share of the twelve millions?”

“Such is my absolute conviction.”

“And that you would like to deliver up to justice the villains who have benefitted by your father’s crime, and who think themselves sure of impunity?”

Tears of anger fell from Maxence’s eyes.

“Do you wish to take away all my courage?” he murmured.

“No; but I wish to demonstrate to you the necessity of the step which I advise you to take.  The end justifies the means; and we have not the choice of means.  Come, ’tis to an honest man and a tried friend that I shall take you.  Fear nothing.  If he remembers that he is commissary of police, it will be to serve us, not to injure you.  You hesitate?  Perhaps at this moment he already knows more than we do ourselves.”

Maxence took a sudden resolution.

“Very well,” he said:  “let us go.”

In less than five minutes they were off; and, as they went out, they had to disturb Mme. Fortin, who stood at the door, gossiping with two or three of the neighboring shop-keepers.

As soon as Maxence and Mlle. Lucienne were out of hearing,

“You see that young man,” said the honorable proprietress of the Hotel des Folies to her interlocutors.  “Well, he is the son of that famous cashier who has just run off with twelve millions, after ruining a thousand families.  It don’t seem to trouble him, either; for there he is, going out to spend a pleasant day with his mistress, and to treat her to a fine dinner with the old man’s money.”

Meantime, Maxence and Lucienne reached the commissary’s house.  He was at home; they walked in.  And, as soon as they appeared,

“I expected you,” he said.

He was a man already past middle age, but active and vigorous still.  With his white cravat and long frock-coat, he looked like a notary.  Benign was the expression of his countenance; but the lustre of his little gray eyes, and the mobility of his nostrils, showed that it should not be trusted too far.

“Yes, I expected you,” he repeated, addressing himself as much to Maxence as to Mlle. Lucienne.  “It is the Mutual Credit matter which brings you here?”

Maxence stepped forward,

“I am Vincent Favoral’s son, sir,” he replied.  “I have still my mother and a sister.  Our situation is horrible.  Mlle. Lucienne suggested that you might be willing to give me some advice; and here we are.”

The commissary rang, and, on the bell being answered,