“That is it, sir: walk in.”
It was a small room, with a low ceiling, and poorly furnished. The faded curtains and threadbare carpet showed plainly that more than one judge had occupied it, and that legions of accused criminals had passed through it. In front of a table, two men—one old, the judge; the other young, the clerk—were signing and classifying papers. These papers related to the Favoral case, and were all indorsed in large letters: Mutual Credit Company.
As soon as Maxence appeared, the judge rose, and, after measuring him with a clear and cold look:
“Who are you?” he interrogated.
In a somewhat husky voice, Maxence stated his name and surname.
“Ah! you are Vincent Favoral’s son,” interrupted the judge. “And it was you who helped him escape through the window? I was going to send you a summons this very day; but, since you are here, so much the better. You have something important to communicate, I have been told.”
Very few people, even among the most strictly honest, can overcome a certain unpleasant feeling when, having crossed the threshold of the palace of justice, they find themselves in presence of a judge. More than almost any one else, Maxence was likely to be accessible to that vague and inexplicable feeling; and it was with an effort that he answered,
“On Saturday evening, the Baron de Thaller called at our house a few minutes before the commissary. After loading my father with reproaches, he invited him to leave the country; and, in order to facilitate his flight, he handed him these fifteen thousand francs. My father declined to accept them; and, at the moment of parting, he recommended to me particularly to return them to M. de Thaller. I thought it best to return them to you, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because I wished the fact known to you of the money having been offered and refused.”