“It is the climax of absurdity,” murmured good M. Desormeaux. Maxence fairly shook with wrath. Mlle. Gilberte was weeping. Mme. Favoral alone, usually so timid, boldly defended, and with her utmost energy, the man whose name she bore. That he might have embezzled millions, she admitted: that he had deceived and betrayed her so shamefully, that he had made a wretched dupe of her for so many years, seemed to her insensate, monstrous, impossible. And purple with shame: “Your suspicions would vanish at once, sir,” she said to the commissary, “if I could but explain to you our mode of life.” Encouraged by his first discovery, he was proceeding more minutely with his perquisitions, undoing the strings of every bundle. “It is useless, madame,” he answered in that brief tone which made so much impression upon M. Desclavettes. “You can only tell me what you know; and you know nothing.” “Never, sir, did a man lead a more regular life than M. Favoral.” “In appearance, you are right. Besides, to regulate one’s disorder is one of the peculiarities of our time. We open credits to our passions, and we keep account of our infamies by double entry. We operate with method. We embezzle millions that we may hang diamonds to the ears of an adventuress; but we are careful, and we keep the receipted bills.” “But, sir, I have already told you that I never lost sight of my husband.” “Of course.” “Every morning, precisely at nine o’clock, he left home to go to M. de Thaller’s office.” “The whole neighborhood knows that, madame.” “At half-past five he came home.” “That, also, is a well-known fact.” “After dinner he went out to play a game, but it was his only amusement; and at eleven o’clock he was always in bed.” “Perfectly correct.” “Well, then, sir, where could M. Favoral have found time to abandon himself to the excesses of which you accuse him?” Imperceptibly the commissary of police shrugged his shoulders.