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 â€” and it is burying itself deeper and deeper in my mind â€” that it was Joseph who did it. I have no proofs, no clues to warrant my suspicion, â€” 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.