With a suppressed cry Camille tore himself from his brother’s hands.
“Who has given you the right to question me?” he cried. “I will not have it. I have had enough of your spying.” And flinging himself violently towards the door of his own room, he was on the point of disappearing from Jean’s presence, when the latter, with another movement of his strong arm, drew him back and himself entered the apartment.
In an instant he came back. His face was like stone, and he had in his hand a valise fully packed, which he set heavily down on the table before Camille’s eyes.
“What does this mean?” he asked. “Where are you going and why have you kept your departure a secret from me?”
For a moment the stricken Camille did not reply; then he broke down, and flinging himself on his knees, burst forth with the cry:
“I am a ruined man, Jean; I—I tried it again, and this time it will be found out. To-morrow, to-night, possibly, my employer will look over his books, and—”
“How much is it?” broke in Jean, in a low, strained voice.
“Ten thousand francs,” murmured the other. “All gone.”
“Lost at play?”