“What do you want, you?” he asked roughly.

“The gentleman is my best friend,” said Maxence, turning to him; “and I have no secret from him.”

“Let him walk in, then; but, by Heaven, let us hurry!”

Once very sumptuous, the private office of the editor of “The Financial Pilot” had fallen into a state of sordid dilapidation.  If the janitor had received orders never to use a broom or a duster there, he obeyed them strictly.  Disorder and dirt reigned supreme.  Papers and manuscripts lay in all directions; and on the broad sofas the mud from the boots of all those who had lounged upon them had been drying for months.  On the mantel-piece, in the midst of some half-dozen dirty glasses, stood a bottle of Madeira, half empty.  Finally, before the fireplace, on the carpet, and along the furniture, cigar and cigarette stumps were heaped in profusion.

As soon as he had bolted the door, coming straight to Maxence,

“What has become of your father?” inquired M. Saint Pavin rudely.

Maxence started.  That was the last question he expected to hear.

“I do not know,” he replied.

The manager of “The Pilot” shrugged his shoulders.  “That you should say so to the commissary of police, to the judges, and to all Favoral’s enemies, I understand:  it is your duty.  That they should believe you, I understand too; for, after all, what do they care?  But to me, a friend, though you may not think so, and who has reasons not to be credulous——­”

“I swear to you that we have no idea where he has taken refuge.”

Maxence said this with such an accent of sincerity, that doubt was no longer possible.  M. Saint Pavin’s features expressed the utmost surprise.

“What!” he exclaimed, “your father has gone without securing the means of hearing from his family?”

“Yes.”

“Without saying a word of his intentions to your mother, or your sister, or yourself?”

“Without one word.”

“Without leaving any money, perhaps?”

“We found only an insignificant sum after he left.”  The editor of “The Pilot” made a gesture of ironical admiration.  “Well, the thing is complete,” he said; “and Vincent is a smarter fellow than I gave him credit for; or else he must have cared more for those infernal women of his than any one supposed.”

M. de Tregars, who had remained hitherto silent, now stepped forward.

“What women?” he asked.

“How do I know?” he replied roughly.  “How could any one ever find out any thing about a man who was more hermetically shut up in his coat than a Jesuit in his gown?”

“M.  Costeclar—­”

“That’s another nice bird!  Still he may possibly have discovered something of Vincent’s life; for he led him a pretty dance.  Wasn’t he about to marry Mlle. Favoral once?”

“Yes, in spite of herself even.”

“Then you are right:  he had discovered something.  But, if you rely on him to tell you anything whatever, you are reckoning without your host.”