“Alas!” he murmured.
“Prosper is to be arrested, accused of being a thief?”
“Yes, madame, he is accused of taking three hundred and fifty thousand francs from the bank-safe.”
“It is false, infamous, absurd!” she cried. She had dropped Fanferlot’s hand; and her fury, like that of a spoiled child, found vent in violent actions. She tore her web-like handkerchief, and the magnificent lace on her gown, to shreds.
“Prosper steal!” she cried; “what a stupid idea! Why should he steal? Is he not rich?”
“M. Bertomy is not rich, madame; he has nothing but his salary.”
The answer seemed to confound Mme. Gypsy.
“But,” she insisted, “I have always seen him have plenty of money; not rich—then——”
She dared not finish; but her eye met Fanferlot’s, and they understood each other.
Mme. Nina’s look meant: