Lucille's name was not mentioned between us. My own desires and feelings had been pushed into the background by the events of the last few days, and he is but half a man who cannot submit cheerfully to such treatment at the hand of Fate from time to time. During the day we learnt further details respecting the theft of the money, amounting in all to rather more than eight hundred thousand pounds of our coinage. Miste, it appeared, had been instructed to leave Paris by the eight o'clock train that morning for London, taking with him a large sum. The Vicomte had handed him the money the previous evening. "I carelessly replaced the remainder in the drawer of my writing-table," my patron told us, "before the eyes of that scoundrel. I went to the drawer this morning, having been uneasy about so large a sum--it was arranged that I should see Miste off from the Gare du Nord. Figure to yourselves! The drawer was empty. I hastened to the railway station. Miste was, of course, not there." And he rocked himself backwards and forwards in the chair. What trouble men take for money--what trouble it brings them! So distressed was he that it would perhaps have been wiser to change the current of his thoughts, but there was surely work here for an idle man like myself to do. "How was the money to be conveyed?" I asked. "In cheques of ten thousand pounds each, drawn by John Turner on various European and American bankers in favour of myself." "And you had indorsed these cheques?" "No." "Then how can Miste realise them?" I asked. "By forgery--my friend," replied the Vicomte sadly. Which was true enough. I thought of Monsieur Miste's graceful figure--of his slim neck, and longed to get my fingers around it. I had only seen his back, after all--and had a singular desire to know the look of his face. I am no great reader, but have met some words which go well with the thoughts I harboured at this time of Monsieur Charles Miste, for I could "Read rascal in the motions of his back, And scoundrel in the subtle sliding knee." Seeing that I had risen, the Vicomte asked me where I was going, in a tone of anxiety which I had noted in his voice of late, and, in my vanity, attributed to the fact that he was in some degree dependent upon myself. "I am going to see John Turner, and then I am going to seek Charles Miste until I find him." Before I knew what had happened, Alphonse Giraud was shaking my hand, and would have embraced me had he not remembered in time his English clothes, and the reserve of manner usually observed inside such habiliments. "Ah! my friend," he said, desperately, "the world is large." "Yes; but not roomy enough for Monsieur Charles Miste and your humble servant." I spent the remainder of the day with John Turner, who was cynical enough about the matter, but gave me, nevertheless, much valuable information.