M. Casimir’s eye sparkled as he took his seat at the table opposite his entertainer. The crafty agent had chosen a little room looking out on to the boulevard. Not that it was more spacious or elegant than the others, but it was isolated, and this was a very great advantage; for every one knows how unsafe and perfidious are those so-called private rooms which are merely separated from each other by a thin partition, scarcely thicker than a sheet of paper. It was not long before M. Fortunat had reason to congratulate himself on his foresight, for the breakfast began with a dish of shrimps, and M. Casimir had not finished his twelfth, washed down by a glass of chablis, before he declared that he could see no impropriety in confiding certain things to a friend. The events of the morning had completely turned his head; and gratified vanity and good cheer excited him to such a degree that he discoursed with unwonted volubility. With total disregard of prudence, he talked with inexcusable freedom of the Count de Chalusse, and M. de Valorsay, and especially of his enemy, Mademoiselle Marguerite. “For it is she,” he exclaimed, rapping on the table with his knife--“it is she who has taken the missing millions! How she did it, no one will ever know, for she has not an equal in craftiness; but it’s she who has stolen them, I’m sure of it! I would have taken my oath to that effect before the magistrate, and I would have proved it, too, if he hadn’t taken her part because she’s pretty--for she is devilishly pretty.” Even if M. Fortunat had wished to put in a word or two, he could have found no opportunity. But his guest’s loquacity did not displease him; it gave him an opportunity for reflection. Strange thoughts arose in his mind, and connecting M. Casimir’s affirmations with the assurances of the Marquis de Valorsay, he was amazed at the coincidence. “It’s very singular!” he thought. “Has this girl really stolen the money? and has the marquis discovered the fact through Madame Leon, and determined to profit by the theft? In that case, I may get my money back, after all! I must look into the matter.” A partridge and a bottle of Pomard followed the shrimps and chablis; and M. Casimir’s loquacity increased, and his voice rose higher and higher. He wandered from one absurd story to another, and from slander to slander, until suddenly, and without the slightest warning, he began to speak of the mysterious letter which he considered the undoubted cause of the count’s illness. At the first word respecting this missive, M. Fortunat started violently. “Nonsense!” said he, with an incredulous air. “Why the devil should this letter have had such an influence?”