After a prolonged silence, M. Daburon took a pen, and hurriedly wrote a few lines. “I surrender,” said he. “M. Albert de Commarin shall be arrested; that is settled. The different formalities to be gone through and the perquisitions will occupy some time, which I wish to employ in interrogating the Count de Commarin, the young man’s father, and your friend M. Noel Gerdy, the young advocate. The letters he possesses are indispensable to me.” At the name of Gerdy, M. Tabaret’s face assumed a most comical expression of uneasiness. “Confound it,” cried he, “the very thing I most dreaded.” “What?” asked M. Daburon. “The necessity for the examination of those letters. Noel will discover my interference. He will despise me: he will fly from me, when he knows that Tabaret and Tirauclair sleep in the same nightcap. Before eight days are past, my oldest friends will refuse to shake hands with me, as if it were not an honour to serve justice. I shall be obliged to change my residence, and assume a false name.” He almost wept, so great was his annoyance. M. Daburon was touched. “Reassure yourself, my dear M. Tabaret,” said he. “I will manage that your adopted son, your Benjamin, shall know nothing. I will lead him to believe I have reached him by means of the widow’s papers.” The old fellow seized the magistrate’s hand in a transport of gratitude, and carried it to his lips. Oh! thanks, sir, a thousand thanks! I should like to be permitted to witness the arrest; and I shall be glad to assist at the perquisitions.” “I intended to ask you to do so, M. Tabaret,” answered the magistrate. The lamps paled in the gray dawn of the morning; already the rumbling of vehicles was heard; Paris was awaking. “I have no time to lose,” continued M. Daburon, “if I would have all my measures well taken. I must at once see the public prosecutor, whether he is up or not. I shall go direct from his house to the Palais de Justice, and be there before eight o’clock; and I desire, M. Tabaret, that you will there await my orders.” The old fellow bowed his thanks and was about to leave, when the magistrate’s servant appeared. “Here is a note, sir,” said he, “which a gendarme has just brought from Bougival. He waits an answer.” “Very well,” replied M. Daburon. “Ask the man to have some refreshment; at least offer him a glass of wine.” He opened the envelope. “Ah!” he cried, “a letter from Gevrol;” and he read: