Don Juan had not once lifted his head since the mention of his brother-in-law's name. He replied to Paul's request, in a broken voice-- "Let him take the papers he speaks of," he answered, "I will be responsible for him." The principal police-officer bowed. "I will accompany you to your rooms, Mr. Lisimon," he said, "and remain with you while you collect those papers." "Father, father!" exclaimed Camillia; "can you suffer this--can you allow the companion of my youth to be sent to jail as a common felon?" "He merits no other fate," replied Don Juan; "he has proved himself unworthy the name of an honest man." "He has not done so," cried Camillia; "he is innocent!" "What leads you to believe in his innocence?" "My own instinct," replied the fearless girl. Again the brow of Don Juan grew dark with fury. "Your own instinct!" he exclaimed; "beware girl, do not force me to believe you have another reason for thus defending this man. Do not compel me to despise you!" While this conversation was passing between father and daughter, Paul Lisimon and the officer proceeded to the Mexican's apartment, which was situated, as the reader is aware, upon the upper floor of Villa Moraquitos; but the Spaniard's elegant abode was only elevated one story above the ground floor, so that the room occupied by Paul was not in reality more than eighteen feet above the garden, into which it looked. The police-officer followed his prisoner into the room, and seated himself near the door, while Paul unlocked his desk and examined its contents. The papers which he wished to secure were a few brief notes that had been written to him, at different periods, by Camillia Moraquitos. The young girl had often slipped a few lines of affectionate encouragement into her lover's hand at a time when the lynx eyes of strangers prevented their exchanging a word. Paul Lisimon knew that, brief as these letters were, they contained quite enough to betray the secret of the lovers, and to draw down upon Camillia all the terrors of a father's wrath. He secured the little packet with a ribbon, which the Spanish girl had once worn in her hair, and, thrusting the packet into his bosom, prepared to accompany the officer. As they were about leaving the apartment, a low rap sounded upon the panel of the door. The person who thus demanded admittance was the French governess, Pauline Corsi. "Let me speak to your prisoner--alone--if only for a few moments?" she said, pleadingly, and with all the fascination peculiar to her manner; "let me speak to him, monsieur, I implore!" "You are welcome to speak to him, mademoiselle," replied the officer, "but I regret to tell you that whatever you have to say, must be said in my presence." The Frenchwoman shrugged her shoulders with a graceful gesture of vexation. "That is very hard, monsieur," she said, looking thoughtful.