Having finished writing, the magistrate rang for his servant, who soon appeared.

“Here,” said he, “are two letters, which you must take to my clerk, Constant.  Tell him to read them, and to have the orders they contain executed at once,—­at once, you understand.  Run, take a cab, and be quick!  Ah! one word.  If Constant is not in my office, have him sought for; he will not be far off, as he is waiting for me.  Go quickly!”

M. Daburon then turned and said to Claire:  “Have you kept the letter, mademoiselle, in which M. Albert asked for this interview?”

“Yes, sir, I even think I have it with me.”

She arose, felt in her pocket, and drew out a much crumpled piece of paper.

“Here it is!”

The investigating magistrate took it.  A suspicion crossed his mind.  This compromising letter happened to be very conveniently in Claire’s pocket; and yet young girls do not usually carry about with them requests for secret interviews.  At a glance, he read the ten lines of the note.

“No date,” he murmured, “no stamp, nothing at all.”

Claire did not hear him; she was racking her brain to find other proofs of the interview.

“Sir,” said she suddenly, “it often happens, that when we wish to be, and believe ourselves alone, we are nevertheless observed.  Summon, I beseech you, all of my grandmother’s servants, and inquire if any of them saw Albert that night.”

“Inquire of your servants!  Can you dream of such a thing, mademoiselle?”

“What, sir?  You fear that I shall be compromised.  What of that, if he is only freed?”

M. Daburon could not help admiring her.  What sublime devotion in this young girl, whether she spoke the truth or not!  He could understand the violence she had been doing to her feelings during the past hour, he who knew her character so well.

“That is not all,” she added; “the key which I threw to Albert, he did not return it to me; he must have forgotten to do so.  If it is found in his possession, it will well prove that he was in the garden.”

“I will give orders respecting it, mademoiselle.”

“There is still another thing,” continued Claire; “while I am here, send some one to examine the wall.”

She seemed to think of everything.

“That is already done, mademoiselle,” replied M. Daburon.  “I will not hide from you that one of the letters which I have just sent off ordered an examination of your grandmother’s wall, a secret examination, though, be assured.”

Claire rose joyfully, and for the second time held out her hand to the magistrate.

“Oh, thanks!” she said, “a thousand thanks!  Now I can well see that you are with me.  But I have still another idea:  Albert ought to have the note I wrote on Tuesday.”

“No, mademoiselle, he burnt it.”

Claire drew back.  She imagined she felt a touch of irony in the magistrate’s reply.  There was none, however.  M. Daburon remembered the letter thrown into the fire by Albert on the Tuesday afternoon.  It could only been the one Claire had sent him.  It was to her, then, that the words, “She cannot resist me,” applied.  He understood, now, the action and the remark.