"Monsieur le Vicomte returned a few minutes ago," the butler told me. "He has gone to the study, and is now with the Baron Giraud. The Vicomte asked that you should go to him at once." The atmosphere of the old house seemed gloomy and full of foreboding as I ran up the stairs. The servant stood at the open door and watched me. In that unknown world behind the green baize door more is known than we suspect, and there is often no surprise there when we who live above stairs are dumbfounded. In my haste I forgot to knock at Monsieur de Clericy's door before opening it--indeed, I think it was ajar. "My good friend," I heard as I entered the room, "collect yourself. Be calm. We are together in a great misfortune--the money has been stolen!" The voice was that of my patron. 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. "As you are there. You did not steal it." "No--I did not steal it," I answered quietly, for there was a look in his face that I did not understand, while it frightened me. Suddenly his eyes shot red--his face was almost black. He fell forward into my arms, and I tore his collar off as I laid him to the ground. "Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" the Vicomte was crying as he ran hither and thither, wringing his hands, while I attended, unskillfully enough, to the stricken man. "Ah, mon Dieu! what is this?" "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. Chapter XI Theft "La fortune ne laisse rien perdre pour les hommes heureux." I thus returned Alphonse Giraud's visit sooner than either of us anticipated, for I had to go and tell him what had happened in the Rue des Palmiers. I delivered my news in as few words as possible, and cannot tell how he took the evil tidings, for when I had spoken I walked to the window, and there stood looking down into the street. "Have you told me all?" asked Giraud at length, wondering, perhaps, that I lingered. "No." I turned and faced him, the little French dandy, in his stiff collar and patent-leather boots--no bigger than a girl's. The politeness of our previous intercourse seemed to have fallen away from us.