“I think that I can solve the riddle,” remarked Mascarin. “I know the old fellow so well.”
Paul listened with breathless eagerness.
“Tantaine,” resumed Mascarin, “is the best and kindest fellow in the world, but he is not quite right in the upper story. He was a wealthy man once, but his liberality was his ruin. He is as poor as a church-mouse now, but he is as anxious as ever to be charitable. Unfortunately in the place I procured for him he had a certain amount of petty cash at his disposal, and moved to pity at the sight of your sufferings, he gave you the money that really belonged to others. Then he sent in his accounts, and the deficiency was discovered. He lost his head, and declared that he had been robbed. You lived in the next room; you were known to be in abject poverty on the one day and in ample funds on the next; hence these suspicions.”
All was too clear to Paul, and a cold shiver ran through his frame as he saw himself arrested, tried, and condemned.
“But,” stammered he, “M. Tantaine holds my note of hand, which is a proof that I acted honestly.”
“My poor boy, do you think that if he hoped to save himself at your expense he would produce it?”
“Luckily, sir, you know the real state of the case.”
Mascarin shook is head.
“Would my story be credited?” asked he. “Justice is not infallible, and I must confess that appearances are against you.”
Paul was crushed down beneath this weight of argument. “There is no resource for me then but death,” murmured he, “for I will not live a dishonored man.”