“Oh! wait a moment.  I did not take these papers to my rooms in my father’s house.  I put them into a drawer of a bureau in my house at Passy.  When the war broke out, I forgot them.  I had left Paris before the siege began, you know, being in command of a company of volunteers from this department.  During the two sieges, my house was successively occupied by the National Guards, the soldiers of the Commune, and the regular troops.  When I got back there, I found the four walls pierced with holes by the shells; but all the furniture had disappeared, and with it the papers.”

“And Sir Francis Burnett?”

“He left France at the beginning of the invasion; and I do not know what has become of him.  Two friends of his in England, to whom I wrote, replied,—­the one that he was probably in Australia; the other that he was dead.”

“And you have taken no other steps to secure your rights to a piece of property which legally belongs to you?”

“No, not till now.”

“You mean to say virtually that there is in Paris a house which has no owner, is forgotten by everybody, and unknown even to the tax-gatherer?”

“I beg your pardon!  The taxes have always been regularly paid; and the whole neighborhood knows that I am the owner.  But the individuality is not the same.  I have unceremoniously assumed the identity of my friend.  In the eyes of the neighbors, the small dealers near by, the workmen and contractors whom I have employed, for the servants and the gardener, I am Sir Francis Burnett.  Ask them about Jacques de Boiscoran, and they will tell you, ‘Don’t know.’  Ask them about Sir Francis Burnett, and they will answer, ‘Oh, very well!’ and they will give you my portrait.”

M. Magloire shook his head as if he were not fully convinced.

“Then,” he asked again, “you declare that the Countess Claudieuse has been at this house?”

“More than fifty times in three years.”

“If that is so, she must be known there.”

“No.”

“But”—­

“Paris is not like Sauveterre, my dear friend; and people are not solely occupied with their neighbors’ doings.  Vine Street is quite a deserted street; and the countess took the greatest precautions in coming and going.”

“Well, granted, as far as the outside world is concerned.  But within?  You must have had somebody to stay in the house and keep it in order when you were away, and to wait upon you when you were there?”

“I had an English maid-servant.”

“Well, this girl must know the countess?”

“She has never caught a glimpse of her even.”

“Oh!”

“When the countess was coming down, or when she was going away, or when we wanted to walk in the garden, I sent the girl on some errand.  I have sent her as far as Orleans to get rid of her for twenty-four hours.  The rest of the time we staid up stairs, and waited upon ourselves.”