Making an effort to rise and walk, Mme. Favoral went out. She was gone but a minute; and, when she returned, her agitation had further increased. “It is the hand of Providence, perhaps,” she said. The others were all looking at her anxiously. She took a seat, and, addressing herself more especially to M. de Tregars,
“This is what happens,” she said in a feeble voice. “M. Favoral was in the habit of always changing his coat as soon as he came home. As usual, he did so last evening. When they came to arrest him, he forgot to change again, and went off with the coat he had on. The other remained hanging in the room, where the girl took it just now to brush it, and put it away; and this portfolio, which my husband always carries with him, fell from its pocket.”
It was an old Russia leather portfolio, which had once been red, but which time and use had turned black. It was full of papers.
“Perhaps, indeed,” exclaimed Maxence, “we may find some information there.”
He opened it, and had already taken out three-fourths of its contents without finding any thing of any consequence, when suddenly he uttered an exclamation. He had just opened an anonymous note, evidently written in a disguised hand, and at one glance had read,
“I cannot understand your negligence. You should get through that Van Klopen matter. There is the danger.”
“What is that note?” inquired M. de Tregars.
Maxence handed it to him.
“See!” said he, “but you will not understand the immense interest it has for me.”
But having read it,