“But Prosper is a good friend of mine, and has saved me from ruin more than once.”

“Only the more reason for your keeping quiet.  You cannot be of the slightest assistance to him, and I can tell you that you may be of great injury.  As you are known to be his devoted friend, of course your absence at this time will be remarked upon.  Any steps that you take in this matter will receive the worst interpretation.”

“Prosper is innocent, I am sure.”

Fanferlot was of the same opinion, but he had no idea of betraying his private thoughts; and yet for the success of his investigations it was necessary to impress the importance of prudence and discretion upon the young man.  He would have told him to keep silent concerning what had passed between them, but he dared not.

“What you say may be true,” he said.  “I hope it is, for the sake of M. Bertomy, and on your own account too; for, if he is guilty, you will certainly be very much annoyed, and perhaps suspected of complicity, as you are well known to be intimate with him.”

Cavaillon was overcome.

“Now you had best take my advice, monsieur, and return to your business, and—.  Good-morning, monsieur.”

The poor fellow obeyed.  Slowly and with swelling heart he returned to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette.  He asked himself how he could serve Prosper, warn Mme. Gypsy, and, above all, have his revenge upon this odious detective, who had just made him suffer cruel humiliation.

He had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than Fanferlot entered No. 39, gave his name to the porter as Prosper Bertomy, went upstairs, and knocked at the first door he came to.

It was opened by a youthful footman, dressed in the most fanciful livery.

“Is Mme. Gypsy at home?”

The groom hesitated; seeing this, Fanferlot showed his note, and said: 

“M.  Prosper told me to hand this note to madame, and wait for an answer.”

“Walk in, and I will let madame know you are here.”

The name of Prosper produced its effect.  Fanferlot was ushered into a little room furnished in blue and gold silk damask.  Heavy curtains darkened the windows, and hung in front of the doors.  The floor was covered with a blue velvet carpet.

“Our cashier was certainly well lodged,” murmured the detective.

But he had no time to purse his inventory.  One of the door-curtains was pushed aside, and Mme. Nina Gypsy stood before him.

Mme. Gypsy was quite young, small, and graceful, with a brown or rather gold-colored quadroon complexion, with the hands and feet of a child.

Long curling silk lashes softened the piercing brilliancy of her large black eyes; her lips were full, and her teeth were very white.

She had not yet made her toilet, but wore a velvet dressing-wrapper, which did not conceal the lace ruffles beneath.  But she had already been under the hands of a hairdresser.