“Rio de Janeiro is the capital of Brazil,” he said in a tone of importance. “And your relative evidently intended to go there; and, if he has not changed his mind, I doubt whether you can overtake him; for the Brazilian steamer was to have sailed yesterday from Havre.” Whatever may have been his intentions, M. de Tregars remained perfectly calm. “If that’s the case,” he said to the shopkeepers, “I think I had better give up the chase. I am much obliged to you, however, for your information.” But, once out again, “Do you really believe,” inquired Maxence, “that my father has left France?” M. de Tregars shook his head. “I will give you my opinion,” he uttered, “after I have investigated matters in the Rue du Cirque.” They drove there in a few minutes; and, the cab having stopped at the entrance of the street, they walked on foot in front of No. 49. It was a small cottage, only one story in height, built between a sanded court-yard and a garden, whose tall trees showed above the roof. At the windows could be seen curtains of light-colored silk, --a sure indication of the presence of a young and pretty woman. For a few minutes Marius de Tregars remained in observation; but, as nothing stirred, “We must find out something, somehow,” he exclaimed impatiently. And noticing a large grocery store bearing No. 62, he directed his steps towards it, still accompanied by Maxence. It was the hour of the day when customers are rare. Standing in the centre of the shop, the grocer, a big fat man with an air of importance, was overseeing his men, who were busy putting things in order. M. de Tregars took him aside, and with an accent of mystery, “I am,” he said, “a clerk with M. Drayton, the jeweler in the Rue de la Paix; and I come to ask you one of those little favors which tradespeople owe to each other.” A frown appeared on the fat man’s countenance. He thought, perhaps, that M. Drayton’s clerks were rather too stylish-looking; or else, perhaps, he felt apprehensive of one of those numerous petty swindles of which shopkeepers are constantly the victims. “What is it?” said he. “Speak!” “I am on my way,” spoke M. de Tregars, “to deliver a ring which a lady purchased of us yesterday. She is not a regular customer, and has given us no references. If she doesn’t pay, shall I leave the ring? My employer told me, ‘Consult some prominent tradesman of the neighborhood, and follow his advice.’” Prominent tradesman! Delicately tickled vanity was dancing in the grocer’s eyes. “What is the name of the lady?” he inquired. “Mme. Zelie Cadelle.” The grocer burst out laughing. “In that case, my boy,” he said, tapping familiarly the shoulder of the so-called clerk, “whether she pays or not, you can deliver the article.” The familiarity was not, perhaps, very much to the taste of the Marquis de Tregars. No matter. “She is rich, then, that lady?” he said. “Personally no. But she is protected by an old fool, who allows her all her fancies.”