“In a house in the Allées de Meilhan, No. 15, on the corner of a mantelpiece in a small room on the fifth floor.”
“But,” cried Morrel, “this purse is not yours!” Julie handed to her father the letter she had received in the morning.
“And did you go alone?” asked Morrel, after he had read it.
“Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He was to have waited for me at the corner of the Rue du Musée, but, strange to say, he was not there when I returned.”
“Monsieur Morrel!” exclaimed a voice on the stairs; “Monsieur Morrel!”
“It is his voice!” said Julie. At this moment Emmanuel entered, his countenance full of animation and joy.
“The Pharaon!” he cried; “the Pharaon!”
“What!—what!—the Pharaon! Are you mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel is lost.”
“The Pharaon, sir—they signal the Pharaon! The Pharaon is entering the harbor!”
Morrel fell back in his chair, his strength was failing him; his understanding weakened by such events, refused to comprehend such incredible, unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son came in.