Useless precaution!  Mme. Gypsy was one of those women whose inert listlessness conceals indomitable energy; fragile-looking creatures whose powers of endurance and resistance are unlimited; cat-like in their soft grace and delicacy, especially cat-like in their nerves and muscles of steel.

The dizziness caused by the shock she had received quickly passed off.  She tottered, but did not fall, and stood up looking stronger than ever; seizing the wrist of the detective, she held it as if her delicate little hand were a vice, and cried out: 

“Explain yourself! what does all this mean?  Do you know anything about the contents of this note?”

Although Fanferlot betrayed courage in daily contending with the most dangerous rascals, he was positively terrified by Mme. Gypsy.

“Alas!” he murmured.

“Prosper is to be arrested, accused of being a thief?”

“Yes, madame, he is accused of taking three hundred and fifty thousand francs from the bank-safe.”

“It is false, infamous, absurd!” she cried.  She had dropped Fanferlot’s hand; and her fury, like that of a spoiled child, found vent in violent actions.  She tore her web-like handkerchief, and the magnificent lace on her gown, to shreds.

“Prosper steal!” she cried; “what a stupid idea!  Why should he steal?  Is he not rich?”

“M.  Bertomy is not rich, madame; he has nothing but his salary.”

The answer seemed to confound Mme. Gypsy.

“But,” she insisted, “I have always seen him have plenty of money; not rich—­then——­”

She dared not finish; but her eye met Fanferlot’s, and they understood each other.

Mme. Nina’s look meant: 

“He committed this robbery in order to gratify my extravagant whims.”

Fanferlot’s glance answered: 

“Very likely, madame.”

A few minutes’ reflection convinced Nina that her first impression was the correct one.  Doubt fled after hovering for an instant over her agitated mind.

“No!” she cried, “I regret to say that Prosper would never have stolen one cent for me.  One can understand a man robbing a bank to obtain means of bestowing pleasure and luxury upon the woman he loves; but Prosper does not love me, he never has loved me.”

“Oh, fair lady!” protested the gallant and insinuating Fanferlot, “you surely cannot mean what you say.”

Her beautiful eyes filled with tears, as she sadly shook her head, and said: 

“I mean exactly what I say.  It is only too true.  He is ready to gratify my every wish, you may say; what does that prove?  Nothing.  I am too well convinced that he does not love me.  I know what love is.  Once I was beloved by an affectionate, true-hearted man; and my own sufferings of the last year make me know how miserable I must have made him by my cold return.  Alas! we must suffer ourselves before we can feel for others.  No, I am nothing to Prosper; he would not care if—­”