Night was approaching, and the smoking-room was gradually filling with men who called for absinthe or bitters, and youths who perched themselves up on high stools, and smoked their pipes.

“It is time to go,” said M. Verduret; “your master will want you, Joseph; besides, here is someone come for me.  I will see you to-morrow.”

The new-comer was no other than Cavaillon, more troubled and frightened than ever.  He looked uneasily around the room, as if he expected the whole police force to appear, and carry him off to prison.

He did not sit down at M. Verduret’s table, but stealthily gave his hand to Prosper, and, after assuring himself that no one was observing them, handed M. Verduret a package, saying: 

“She found this in a cupboard.”

It was a handsomely bound prayer-book.  M. Verduret rapidly turned over the leaves, and soon found the pages from which the words pasted on Prosper’s letter had been cut.

“I had moral proofs,” he said, handing the book to Prosper, “but here is material proof sufficient in itself to save you.”

When Prosper looked at the book he turned pale as a ghost.  He recognized this prayer-book instantly.  He had given it to Madeleine in exchange for the medal.

He opened it, and on the fly-leaf Madeleine had written, “Souvenir of Notre Dame de Fourvieres, 17 January, 1866.”

“This book belongs to Madeleine,” he cried.

M. Verduret did not reply, but walked toward a young man dressed like a brewer, who had just entered the room.

He glanced at the note which this person handed to him, and hastened back to the table, and said, in an agitated tone: 

“I think we have got them now!”

Throwing a five-franc piece on the table, and without saying a word to Cavaillon, he seized Prosper’s arm, and hurried from the room.

“What a fatality!” he said, as he hastened along the street:  “we may miss them.  We shall certainly reach the St. Lazare station too late for the St. Germain train.”

“For Heaven’s sake, where are you going?” asked Prosper.

“Never mind, we can talk after we start.  Hurry!”

Reaching Palais Royal Place, M. Verduret stopped before one of the hacks belonging to the railway station, and examined the horses at a glance.

“How much for driving us to Vesinet?” he asked of the driver.

“I don’t know the road very well that way.”

The name of Vesinet was enough for Prosper.

“Well,” said the driver, “at this time of night, in such dreadful weather, it ought to be—­twenty-five francs.”

“And how much more for driving very rapidly?”

“Bless my soul!  Why, monsieur, I leave that to your generosity; but if you put it at thirty-five francs—­”

“You shall have a hundred,” interrupted M. Verduret, “if you overtake a carriage which has half an hour’s start of us.”