During his inspection of the premises he had found opportunity to secretly transfer an envelope to the hand of Mlle. Fouchette. For the chief of the Secret System was too clever not to see the shoe that pinched Mlle. Fouchette's toes, and, while despising her weakness, was loyal to his obligation.
As soon as Mlle. Fouchette had bidden Jean good-night and found herself in her own room, she took this envelope from her pocket and drew near the lamp.
It was marked "To be opened to-morrow."
She felt it nervously. It crackled. She squeezed it between her thumb and forefinger. She held it between her eyes and the light. In vain the effort to pierce its secrets.
The old tower clock behind the Panthéon mumbled two.
"Dame!" she said, "it is to-morrow!"
And she hastily ripped the missive open.
Something bluish white fluttered to the floor. She picked it up.
It was a new, crisp note of five hundred francs!
She trembled so that she sank into the nearest chair, crushing the paper in her hand. Her little head was so dizzy—really—she could scarcely bring it to bear upon anything.