“The cashier has not yet arrived,” they repeated, “and we can do nothing for you.”

“Then conduct me to M. Fauvel.”

There was a moment’s hesitation; then a clerk named Cavaillon, who was writing near a window, said: 

“The chief is always out at this hour.”

“Then I will call again,” replied M. de Clameran.

And he walked out, as he had entered, without saying “Good-morning,” or even touching his hat.

“Not very polite, that customer,” said little Cavaillon, “but he will soon be settled, for here comes Prosper.”

Prosper Bertomy, head cashier of Fauvel’s banking-house, was a tall, handsome man, of about thirty, with fair hair and large dark-blue eyes, fastidiously neat, and dressed in the height of fashion.

He would have been very prepossessing but for a cold, reserved English-like manner, and a certain air of self-sufficiency which spoiled his naturally bright, open countenance.

“Ah, here you are!” cried Cavaillon, “someone has just been asking for you.”

“Who?  An iron-manufacturer, was it not?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, he will come back again.  Knowing that I would get here late this morning, I made all my arrangements yesterday.”

Prosper had unlocked his office-door, and, as he finished speaking, entered, and closed it behind him.

“Good!” exclaimed one of the clerks, “there is a man who never lets anything disturb him.  The chief has quarrelled with him twenty times for always coming too late, and his remonstrances have no more effect upon him than a breath of wind.”

“And very right, too; he knows he can get anything he wants out of the chief.”

“Besides, how could he come any sooner? a man who sits up all night, and leads a fast life, doesn’t feel like going to work early in the morning.  Did you notice how very pale he looked when he came in?”

“He must have been playing heavily again.  Couturier says he lost fifteen thousand francs at a sitting last week.”

“His work is none the worse done for all that,” interrupted Cavaillon.  “If you were in his place—­”

He stopped short.  The cash-room door suddenly opened, and the cashier appeared before them with tottering step, and a wild, haggard look on his ashy face.

“Robbed!” he gasped out:  “I have been robbed!”

Prosper’s horrified expression, his hollow voice and trembling limbs, betrayed such fearful suffering that the clerks jumped up from their desks, and ran toward him.  He almost dropped into their arms; he was sick and faint, and fell into a chair.

His companions surrounded him, and begged him to explain himself.

“Robbed?” they said; “where, how, by whom?”

Gradually, Prosper recovered himself.

“All the money I had in the safe,” he said, “has been stolen.”

“All?”

“Yes, all; three packages, each containing one hundred notes of a thousand francs, and one package of fifty thousand.  The four packages were wrapped in a sheet of paper, and tied together.”