cruelty of the case. Does it stop there? No.
For, what follows upon that?"

"True, my poor boy," said the notary, with a
comforting nod or two; "your ward rebels
upon that."

"Rebels is too soft a word," retorted
Obenreizer. "My ward revolts from me with
horror. My ward defies me. My ward
withdraws herself from my authority, and takes
shelter (Madame Dor with her) in the house of
that English lawyer, Mr. Bintrey, who replies
to your summons to her to submit herself to my
authority, that she will not do so."

"—And who afterwards writes," said the
notary, moving his large snuff-box to look
among the papers underneath it for the letter,
"that he is coming to confer with me."

"Indeed?" replied Obenreizer, rather
checked. "Well, sir. Have I no legal
rights?"

"Assuredly, my poor boy," returned the
notary. "All but felons have their legal
rights."

"And who calls me felon?" said
Obenreizer, fiercely.

"No one. Be calm under your wrongs.
If the House of Defresnier would call you
felon, indeed, we should know how to deal with
them."

While saying these words, he had handed
Bintrey's very short letter to Obenreizer, who
now read it and gave it back.

"In saying," observed Obenreizer with
recovered composure, "that he is coming to
confer with you, this English lawyer means that he
is coming to deny my authority over my ward."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it. I know him. He is
obstinate and contentious. You will tell me, my
dear sir, whether my authority is unassailable,
until my ward is of age?"

"Absolutely unassailable."

"I will enforce it. I will make her submit
herself to it. For," said Obenreizer, changing
his angry tone to one of grateful submission,
"I owe it to you, sir; to you, who have so
confidingly taken an injured man under your
protection, and into your employment."

"Make your mind easy," said Maître Voigt.
"No more of this now, and no thanks! Be here
to-morrow morning, before the other clerk
comes—between seven and eight. You will find
me in this room; and I will myself initiate you
in your work. Go away! go away! I have
letters to write. I won't hear a word more."

Dismissed with this generous abruptness,
and satisfied with the favourable impression
he had left on the old man's mind, Obenreizer
was at leisure to revert to the mental note he
had made that Maître Voigt once had a client
whose name was Vendale.

"I ought to know England well enough by
this time;" so his meditations ran, as he sat on
a bench in the yard; "and it is not a name I
ever encountered there, except—"he looked
involuntarily over his shoulder—"as his name. Is
the world so small that I cannot get away from
him, even now when he is dead? He confessed
at the last that he had betrayed the trust of the
dead, and misinherited a fortune. And I was to
see to it. And I was to stand off, that my face
might remind him of it. Why my face, unless
it concerned me? I am sure of his words, for
they have been in my ears ever since. Can
there be anything bearing on them, in the
keeping of this old idiot? Anything to repair
my fortunes, and blacken his memory? He
dwelt upon my earliest remembrances, that night
at Basle. Why, unless he had a purpose in it?"

Maître Voigt's two largest he-goats were
butting at him to butt him out of the place, as
if for that disrespectful mention of their
master. So he got up and left the place. But he
walked alone for a long time on the border of
the lake, with his head drooped in deep thought.

Between seven and eight next morning, he
presented himself again at the office. He found
the notary ready for him, at work on some
papers which had come in on the previous evening.
In a few clear words, Maître Voigt
explained the routine of the office, and the duties
Obenreizer would be expected to perform. It
still wanted five minutes to eight, when the
preliminary instructions were declared to be
complete.

"I will show you over the house and the
offices," said Maître Voigt, "but I must put
away these papers first. They come from the
municipal authorities, and they must be taken
special care of."

Obenreizer saw his chance, here, of finding
out the repository in which his employer's
private papers were kept.

"Can't I save you the trouble, sir?" he
asked. "Can't I put those documents away
under your directions?"

Maître Voigt laughed softly to himself;
closed the portfolio in which the papers had
been sent to him; handed it to Obenreizer.

"Suppose you try," he said. "All my papers
of importance are kept yonder."

He pointed to a heavy oaken door, thickly
studded with nails, at the lower end of the
room. Approaching the door, with the portfolio,
Obenreizer discovered, to his astonishment,
that there were no means whatever of
opening it from the outside. There was no
handle, no bolt, no key, and (climax of passive
obstruction!) no keyhole.

"There is a second door to this room?" said
Obenreizer, appealing to the notary.

"No," said Maître Voigt. "Guess again."

"There is a window?"

"Nothing of the sort. The window has
been bricked up. The only way in, is the way
by that door. Do you give it up?" cried Maître
Voigt, in high triumph. "Listen, my good
fellow, and tell me if you hear nothing inside?"

Obenreizer listened for a moment, and started
back from the door.

"I know!" he exclaimed. "I heard of this
when I was apprenticed here at the watch-
maker's. Perrin Brothers have finished their
famous clock-lock at last—and you have got it?"

"Bravo!" said Maître Voigt. "The clock-
lock it is! There, my son! There you have one