“One fine afternoon in April, in the beginning of spring, he was smoking his pipe at the window, when he heard a noise in the street, and leaned over to see.

“The bar broke,—­he tried in vain to hold on to the window-frame,—­and the next moment he fell from the fifth story to the ground, and was killed instantly.

“I have held in my own hands the police report of the accident.  It states that the fall was unavoidable; and that, if no such calamity had occurred before, this was due to the simple fact, that, during the bad weather, nobody had thought of looking out of the window.  The castings of the little railing in front were found to be broken in two places, and so long ago, that a thick layer of rust had filled up the cracks.  The wooden part had become perfectly loose, as the mortar that originally had kept it in place had been apparently eaten away by the winter frosts.”

Daniel and Henrietta had turned very pale.  It was evident that the same terrible suspicion had flashed upon their mind.

“Ah! it was Sarah’s work,” they exclaimed simultaneously.  “It was Sarah who had broken the bar, and loosened the wooden rods; she had, no doubt, been watching for months to see her benefactor fall and kill himself.”

Papa Ravinet shook his head.

“I do not say that,” he said; “and, at all events, it would be impossible to prove it at this time,—­I mean, to prove it against her denial.  It is certain that no one suspected Sarah.  She seemed to be in despair; and everybody pitied her sincerely.  Was she not ruined by this misfortune?

“The old artist had left no will.  His relatives, of whom several lived in Paris, rushed to his rooms; and their first act was to dismiss Sarah, after having searched her trunks, and after giving her to understand that she ought to be very grateful if she was allowed to take away all she said she owed to the munificence of her late patron.

“Still the inheritance was by no means what the heirs had expected.  Knowing that the deceased had had ample means, and how simply he had always lived, they expected to find in his bureau considerable savings.  There was nothing.  A single bond for less than two thousand dollars, and a small sum in cash, were all that was found.

“Ah!  I have long endeavored to find out what had become of the various bonds and the ready money of the old artist; for everybody who had known him agreed that there must be some.  Do you know what I discovered by dint of indefatigable investigations?  I procured leave to examine the books of the savings-bank in which he invested his earnings for the year of his death; and I found there, that on the 17th of April, that is, five days before the poor German’s fall, a certain Ernestine Bergot had deposited a sum of fifteen hundred francs.”

“Ah, you see!” exclaimed Daniel.  “Weary of the simple life with the old man, she murdered him in order to get hold of his money.”