Gandelu was in a hurry to begin.

“Let us get to business,” said he.  “Last week you lent me some money.”

“Just so.  Do you want any more?”

“No; I want to return my bills.”

A cloud passed over Verminet’s face.

“The first does not fall due until the 15th,” remarked he.

“No matter; I have the money with me, and I will pay it on you handing over the bills to me.”

“I can’t do it.”

“And why so, pray?”

“The bills have passed out of my hands.”

Gaston could scarcely credit his ears, nor believe in the truth of this last statement, and was certainly upset, now knowing what to do.

“But,” stammered he, “you promised, when I signed those bills, that they should never go out of your hands.”

“I don’t say I did not; but one can’t always keep to one’s promise.  I was forced to part with them.  I wanted money, and so had to discount them.”

Andre was not at all surprised, for he had anticipated some such difficulty; and seeing that Gaston had entirely lost his head, he broke in on the conversation.

“Excuse me, sir,” remarked he; “but it seems to me that there are certain circumstances in this case which should have made you keep your promise.”

Verminet stared at him.

“Who have I the honor of speaking to?” asked he, instead of making a direct reply.

“I am a friend of M. de Gandelu’s,” returned Andre, thinking it best not to give any name.

“A confidential friend?”

“Entirely so.  He had, I think, ten thousand francs from you.”

“Pardon me, five thousand.”

Andre turned toward his companion in some surprise.

Gaston grew crimson.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the artist.

“Can’t you see?” whispered Gaston.  “I had ten because I wanted the other five for Zora.”

“Oh, indeed,” returned Andre, with a slight uplifting of his eyebrows.  “Well, then, M. Verminet, it was five thousand francs that you lent to my young friend here.  That was right enough; but what do you say to inducing him to forge a signature?”

“I!  I do such a thing?” answered Verminet.  “Why, I did not know that the signature was not genuine.”

This insolent denial aroused the unhappy Gaston from his state of stupor.

“This is too much, a deuced deal too much,” cried he.  “Did you not yourself tell me that, for your own security, you must insist upon another name in addition to mine?  Did you not give me a letter, and say, ’Write a signature like the one at the bottom of this, it is that of Martin Rigal, the banker in the Rue Montmartre’?”

“An utterly false accusation, without a shadow of proof; and remember that a libel uttered in the presence of a third party is punishable by law.”

“And yet, sir,” continued Andre, “you did not hesitate for a moment in discounting these bills.  Have you calculated what terrible results may come of this breach of faith on your part?—­what will happen if this forged signature is presented to M. Martin Rigal?”