"Yes, and she must have told the truth, for the valet said, 'Monsieur le Marquis,' in speaking of his master." "Blanche also said, did she not, that Dargental had altered his name to D'Argental?" "To please the Countess de Lescombat. The news did not surprise me. For ennobling one's self by means of an apostrophe is a very common thing in these days." "Well, look at this pocket-book. Here is a marquis's cornet, and a capital A; that is to say, Marquis d'Argental." "What! you think that this case belonged--" "To our friend Pierre. And now I understand his death. He was killed by some one who wished to regain possession of the letters he kept in this case. So the crime was committed, or at least instigated, by a woman." "I admire your bold reasoning, though I think it decidedly paradoxical. The scoundrel who stole this pocket-book would not have thrown it into our cab." "You told me yourself that he was closely followed by two persons who seemed to be watching him. He perhaps feared that he would be arrested and searched; and he did not know that we were intimate with Dargental. He thought that we should keep the pocket-book, and burn the letters which could be of no possible interest to us, and which he was anxious to get rid of at any cost." "Then, according to you, that man intended to return these letters to the various women they compromised. You must admit that this supposition is absurd in the extreme." "Oh! he was only acting on behalf of _one_ of the women." "Which one? There are three letters, but each of them is written in a different hand. You said so yourself." "I may have been mistaken. I think I will examine them more closely. Let us take a seat in front of that café. I see a table in a corner where we shall be comparatively alone." George Caumont assented to the proposal, and as soon as the friends were seated in a little niche in front of the Café Américain, Puymirol opened the pocket-book. "Let us proceed systematically," he remarked. "Here is the first letter. It is not long, but it is expressive. 'My adored one,' it says, 'I am ready to leave everything to follow you, and to sacrifice, for your sake, all that I prize most in this world, my children and my good name. When shall we start? Say the word, and I will join you. Take me to the end of the world, and make me your slave. I shall be only too happy, for I cannot live apart from you.' I have skipped the kisses. There are too many of them," concluded Adhémar, sneering. "My children!" repeated George, ironically. "Then Blanche certainly did not write that letter. She has no children."