Mascarin paid no heed to this, so occupied was he by his own thoughts. “This young artist seems to have more brains than the rest of the set, but woe to him if he crosses my path. Go back to the outer office, Beaumarchef, I hear some clients coming in.” The man, however, did not obey. “Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but La Candele, who is outside, will see them. I have my report to make.” “Very good. Sit down and go on.” Enchanted at this mark of condescension, Beaumarchef went on. “Yesterday there was nothing of importance, but this morning Toto Chupin came.” “He had not lost Caroline Schimmel, I trust?” “No, sir; he had even got into conversation with her.” “That is good. He is a cunning little devil; a pity that he is not a trifle more honest.” “He is sure,” continued Beaumarchef, “that the woman drinks, for she is always talking of persons following her about who menace her, and she is so afraid of being murdered that she never ventures out alone. She lives with a respectable workingman and his wife, and pays well for her board, for she seems to have plenty of money.” “That is a nuisance,” remarked Mascarin, evidently much annoyed. “Where does she live?” “At Montmartre, beyond the Chateau Rouge.” “Good. Tantaine will inquire and see if Toto has made no mistake, and does not let the woman slip through his fingers.” “He won’t do that, for he told me that he was on the right road to find out who she was, and where she got her money from. But I ought to warn you against the young scamp, for I have found out that he robs us and sells our goods far below their value.” “What do you mean?” “I have long had my suspicions, and yesterday I wormed it all out from a disreputable looking fellow, who came here to ask for his friend Chupin.” Men accustomed to danger are over prompt in their decisions. “Very well,” returned Mascarin, “if this is the case, Master Chupin shall have a taste of prison fare.” Beaumarchef withdrew, but almost immediately reappeared. “Sir,” said he, “a servant from M. de Croisenois is here with a note.” “Send the man in,” said Mascarin. The domestic was irreproachably dressed, and looked what he was, the servant of a nobleman. He had something the appearance of an Englishman, with a high collar, reaching almost to his ears. His face was clean shaved, and of a ruddy hue. His coat was evidently the work of a London tailor, and his appearance was as stiff as though carved out of wood. Indeed, he looked like a very perfect piece of mechanism. “My master,” said he, “desired me to give this note into your own hands.” Under cover of breaking the seal, Mascarin viewed this model servant attentively. He was a stranger to him, for he had never supplied Croisenois with a domestic. “It seems, my good fellow,” said he, “that your master was up earlier than usual this morning?” The man frowned a little at this familiar address, and then slowly replied,--