“SIR,--Your brother-in-law, M. Chardon, is so shamelessly dishonest, that he declares his furniture to be the property of an actress with whom he is living. You ought to have informed me candidly of these circumstances, and not have allowed me to go to useless expense over law proceedings. I have received no answer to my letter of the 10th of May last. You must not, therefore, take it amiss if I ask for immediate repayment of the three bills and the expenses to which I have been put.--Yours, etc., “METIVIER.” Eve had heard nothing during these months, and supposed, in her ignorance of commercial law, that her brother had made reparation for his sins by meeting the forged bills. “Be quick, and go at once to Petit-Claud, dear,” she said; “tell him about it, and ask his advice.” David hurried to his schoolfellow’s office. “When you came to tell me of your appointment and offered me your services, I did not think that I should need them so soon,” he said. Petit-Claud studied the fine face of this man who sat opposite him in the office chair, and scarcely listened to the details of the case, for he knew more of them already than the speaker. As soon as he saw Séchard’s anxiety, he said to himself, “The trick has succeeded.” This kind of comedy is often played in an attorney’s office. “Why are the Cointets persecuting him?” Petit-Claud wondered within himself, for the attorney can use his wit to read his clients’ thoughts as clearly as the ideas of their opponents, and it is his business to see both sides of the judicial web. “You want to gain time,” he said at last, when Séchard had come to an end. “How long do you want? Something like three or four months?” “Oh! four months! that would be my salvation,” exclaimed David. Petit-Claud appeared to him as an angel. “Very well. No one shall lay hands on any of your furniture, and no one shall arrest you for four months----But it will cost you a great deal,” said Petit-Claud. “Eh! what does that matter to me?” cried Séchard. “You are expecting some money to come in; but are you sure of it?” asked Petit-Claud, astonished at the way in which his client walked into the toils. “In three months’ time I shall have plenty of money,” said the inventor, with an inventor’s hopeful confidence. “Your father is still above ground,” suggested Petit-Claud; “he is in no hurry to leave his vines.” “Do you think that I am counting on my father’s death?” returned David. “I am on the track of a trade secret, the secret of making a sheet of paper as strong as Dutch paper, without a thread of cotton in it, and at a cost of fifty per cent less than cotton pulp.” “There is a fortune in that!” exclaimed Petit-Claud. He knew now what the tall Cointet meant. “A large fortune, my friend, for in ten years’ time the demand for paper will be ten times larger than it is to-day. Journalism will be the craze of our day.”