“You are certainly indefatigable!” said Prosper.

“No, but I always strike while the iron is hot.  At Oloron I met Manuel, who had gone there to make a little visit before returning to Spain.  From him I obtained a complete history of Gaston’s life, and all the particulars of his death.  Manuel also told me of Louis’s visit; and the inn-keeper described a young workman who was there at the same time, whom I at once recognized as Raoul.”

“But how did you know of all the conversations between the villains?” said Prosper.  “You seem to be aware of their secret thoughts.”

“You evidently think I have been drawing upon my imagination.  You will soon see to the contrary,” said Verduret good-humoredly.  “While I was at work down there, my aids did not sit with their hands tied together.  Mutually distrustful, Clameran and Raoul preserved all the letters received from each other.  Joseph Dubois copied them, or the important portions of them, and forwarded them to me.  Nina spent her time listening at all doors under her supervision, and sent me a faithful report.  Finally, I have at the Fauvels another means of investigation which I will reveal to you later.”

“I understand it all now,” murmured Prosper.

“And what have you been doing during my absence, my young friend?” asked M. Verduret; “have you heard any news?”

At this question Prosper turned crimson.  But he knew that it would never do to keep silent about his imprudent step.

“Alas!” he stammered, “I read in a newspaper that Clameran was about to marry Madeleine; and I acted like a fool.”

“What did you do?” inquired Verduret anxiously.

“I wrote an anonymous letter to M. Fauvel, informing him that his wife was in love with Raoul—­”

M. Verduret here brought his clinched fist down upon the little table near by, with such violence that the thin plank was shivered.  His cheerful face in an instant clouded over.

“What folly!” he exclaimed, “how could you go and ruin everything?”

He arose from his seat, and strode up and down the room, oblivious of the lodgers below, whose windows shook with every angry stamp of his foot.

“What made you act so like a child, an idiot, a fool?” he said indignantly to Prosper.

“Monsieur!”

“Here you are, drowning; an honest man springs into the water to save you, and just as he approaches the shore you entangle his feet to prevent him from swimming!  What was my last order to you when I left here?”

“To keep quiet, and not go out of the hotel.”

“Well.”

The consciousness of having done a foolish thing made Prosper appear like a frightened school-boy, accused by his teacher of playing truant.

“It was night, monsieur,” he hesitatingly said, “and, having a violent headache, I took a walk along the quay thinking there was no risk in my entering a cafe; there I picked up a paper, and read the dreadful announcement.”