But this dejection did not last long.  Indignant anger, and thirst for vengeance, made him start up and swear that he would lose no time in vain regrets.

M. Fauvel well knew that the fact of the diamonds being stolen was not sufficient ground upon which to bring an accusation against any of the accomplices.

He must possess overwhelming proofs before taking any active steps.  Success depended upon present secrecy.

He began by calling his valet, and ordering him to bring to him every letter that should come to the house.

He then wrote to a notary at St. Remy, for minute and authentic information about the Lagors family, and especially about Raoul.

Finally, following the advice of the anonymous letter, he went to the Prefecture of Police, hoping to obtain a biography of Clameran.

But the police, fortunately for many people, are as discreetly silent as the grave.  They guard their secrets as a miser his treasure.

Nothing but an order from the chief judge could open those formidable green boxes, and reveal their secrets.

M. Fauvel was politely asked what motives urged him to inquire into the past life of a French citizen; and, as he declined to state his reasons, the chief of police told him he had better apply to the Procureur for the desired information.

This advice he could not follow.  He had sworn that the secret of his wrongs should be confined to the three persons interested.  He chose to avenge his own injuries, to be alone the judge and executioner.

He returned home more angry than ever; there he found the despatch answering the one which he had sent to St. Remy.  It was as follows: 

“The Lagors are very poor, and there has never been any member of the family named Raoul.  Mme. Lagors had no son, only two daughters.”

This information dashed his last hope.

The banker thought, when he discovered his wife’s infamy, that she had sinned as deeply as a woman could sin; but he now saw that she had practised a system more shocking than the crime itself.

“Wretched creature!” he cried with anguish; “in order to see her lover constantly, she dared introduce him to me under the name of a nephew who never existed.  She had the shameless courage to bring him beneath her husband’s roof, and seat him at my fireside, between my sons; and I, confiding fool that I was, welcomed the villain, and lent him money.”

Nothing could equal the pain of wounded pride and mortification which he suffered at the thought that Raoul and Mme. Fauvel had amused themselves with his good-natured credulity and obtuseness.

Nothing but death could wipe out an injury of this nature.  But the very bitterness of his resentment enabled him to restrain himself until the time for punishment came.  With grim satisfaction he promised himself that his acting would be as successful as theirs.