Meantime, Maxence and Lucienne reached the commissary’s house. He was at home; they walked in. And, as soon as they appeared, “I expected you,” he said. He was a man already past middle age, but active and vigorous still. With his white cravat and long frock-coat, he looked like a notary. Benign was the expression of his countenance; but the lustre of his little gray eyes, and the mobility of his nostrils, showed that it should not be trusted too far. “Yes, I expected you,” he repeated, addressing himself as much to Maxence as to Mlle. Lucienne. “It is the Mutual Credit matter which brings you here?” Maxence stepped forward, “I am Vincent Favoral’s son, sir,” he replied. “I have still my mother and a sister. Our situation is horrible. Mlle. Lucienne suggested that you might be willing to give me some advice; and here we are.” The commissary rang, and, on the bell being answered, “I am at home for no one,” he said. And then turning to Maxence, “Mlle. Lucienne did well to bring you,” he said; “for it may be, that, whilst rendering her an important service, I may also render you one. But I have no time to lose. Sit down, and tell me all about it.” With the most scrupulous exactness Maxence told the history of his family, and the events of the past twenty-four hours. Not once did the commissary interrupt him; but, when he had done, “Tell me your father’s interview with M. de Thaller all over again,” he requested, “and, especially, do not omit any thing that you have heard or seen, not a word, not a gesture, not a look.” And, Maxence having complied, “Now,” said the commissary, “repeat every thing your father said at the moment of going.” He did so. The commissary took a few notes, and then, “What were,” he inquired, “the relations of your family with the Thaller family?” “There were none.” “What! Neither Mme. nor Mlle. de Thaller ever visited you?” “Never.” “Do you know the Marquis de Tregars?” Maxence stared in surprise. “Tregars!” he repeated. “It’s the first time that I hear that name.” The usual clients of the commissary would have hesitated to recognize him, so completely had he set aside his professional stiffness, so much had his freezing reserve given way to the most encouraging kindness. “Now, then,” he resumed, “never mind M. de Tregars: let us talk of the woman, who, you seem to think, has been the cause of M. Favoral’s ruin.” On the table before him lay the paper in which Maxence had read in the morning the terrible article headed: “Another Financial Disaster.” “I know nothing of that woman,” he replied; “but it must be easy to find out, since the writer of this article pretends to know.” The commissary smiled, not having quite as much faith in newspapers as Maxence seemed to have. “Yes, I read that,” he said. “We might send to the office of that paper,” suggested Mlle. Lucienne. “I have already sent, my child.”