I went in and closed the door behind me.

For it seemed, to my fancy, that there were other doors ajar upon the landing, and listeners on the stairs.
The two old men were facing each other, the one purple in the visage, with starting eyes, the other white and quiet.
"Stolen ?" echoed the Baron in a thick voice, and with a wild look round the room.

"Then I am ruined!" The old Vicomte spread out his trembling hands in despair, a gesture that seemed to indicate a crumbling away of the world beneath us.
The Baron Giraud turned and looked at me.

He did not recognise me for quite ten seconds.
[Illustration: "IT IS DEATH," I ANSWERED, WITH MY HAND INSIDE THE BARON'S SHIRT.

"WHO STOLE THAT MONEY ?" THE VICOMTE LOOKED AT ME.
"CHARLES MISTE," HE SAID.] "Then it is not you," he said, thickly.