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minutes, I listened at the door of the salon. I heard Monsieur crumpling a newspaper. Madame, seated at her little desk, was casting up her accounts.

' ' What did I give you yesterday ? ' ' Madame asked.

"Two francs," answered Monsieur.

' ' You are sure ? ' '

" Why, yes, my pet."

" Well, I am short thirty-eight sous."

' ' It was not I who took them. ' '

" No, it was the cat."

Of the other matter they said not a word.

In the kitchen Joseph does not like to have us talk about the little Claire. When Marianne or I broach the subject, he immediately changes it, or else takes no part in the conversation. It annoys him. I do not know why, but the idea has come to me — and it is burying itself deeper and deeper in my mind — that it was Joseph who did it. I have no proofs, no clues to warrant my suspicion, — no other clues than his eyes, no other proofs than the slight movement of surprise that escaped him when, on my return from the grocer's, I suddenly, in the harness-room, threw in his face for the first time the name of the little Claire murdered and outraged. And yet this purely intuitive suspicion has grown, first into a possibility, and then into a certainty. Undoubtedly I am mistaken.