Evidently M. Magloire was suffering.  He said,—­

“You must be under a mistake.  Servants are curious, and to hide from them is only to make them mad with curiosity.  That girl has watched you.  That girl has found means to see the countess when she came there.  She must be examined.  Is she still in your service?”

“No, she left me when the war broke out.”

“Why?”

“She wanted to return to England.”

“Then we cannot hope to find her again?”

“I believe not.”

“We must give it up, then.  But your man-servant?  Old Anthony was in your confidence.  Did you never tell him any thing about it?”

“Never.  Only once I sent for him to come to Vine Street when I had sprained my foot in coming down stairs.”

“So that it is impossible for you to prove that the Countess Claudieuse ever came to your house in Passy?  You have no evidence of it, and no eye-witness?”

“I used to have evidence.  She had brought a number of small articles for her private use; but they have disappeared during the war.”

“Ah, yes!” said M. Magloire, “always the war!  It has to answer for every thing.”

Never had any of M. Galpin’s examinations been half as painful to Jacques de Boiscoran as this series of quick questions, which betrayed such distressing incredulity.

“Did I not tell you, Magloire,” he resumed, “that the countess had a genius for prudence?  You can easily conceal yourself when you can spend money without counting it.  Would you blame me for not having any proofs to furnish?  Is it not the duty of every man of honor to do all he can to keep even a shadow of suspicion from her who has confided herself to his hands?  I have done my duty, and whatever may come of it, I shall not regret it.  Could I foresee such unheard-of emergencies?  Could I foresee that a day might come when I, Jacques de Boiscoran, should have to denounce the Countess Claudieuse, and should be compelled to look for evidence and witnesses against her?”

The eminent advocate of Sauveterre looked aside; and, instead of replying, he said in a somewhat changed voice,—­

“Go on, Jacques, go on!”

Jacques de Boiscoran tried to overcome the discouragement which well-nigh mastered him, and said,—­

“It was on the 2d September, 1867, that the Countess Claudieuse for the first time entered this house in Passy, which I had purchased and furnished for her; and during the five weeks which she spent in Paris, she came almost every day, and spent several hours there.

“At her father’s house she enjoyed absolute and almost uncontrolled independence.  She left her daughter—­for she had at that time but one child—­with her mother, the Marchioness de Tassar; and she was free to go and to come as she liked.

“When she wanted still greater freedom, she went to see her friend in Fontainebleau; and every time she did this she secured twenty-four or forty-eight hours over and above the time for the journey.  I, for my part, was as perfectly free from all control.  Ostensibly, I had gone to Ireland; in reality, I lived in Vine Street.