"So I find, my dear; but that is the way people will talk."
"Now, Mademoiselle," observed good, kind Mr. Belson, "if you are quite sure that neither my wife nor I can do any thing for you, I had better be going, instead of helping to fill your room when you cannot possibly be much disposed for entertaining company. You are very right, my dear,--quite right to open your doors, and let people see how little is to be seen; but there is no need for me to trouble you any longer. When you wish to see my wife, just send across to tell her so, and make any use you like of me. Good morning, ladies."
More visitors came in, and Mademoiselle had again to begin the ten-times-repeated tale.
"And which window was it you first looked out of, ma'am? The first story, did you say? We were told the lower----"
"It is certainly a hackney-coach, Adèle," cried Mademoiselle, who had started from her seat in the midst of that which was being said to her; "it is a hackney-coach with two gentlemen in it."
And without ceremony the two young ladies ran out of the room, closing the door behind them, and leaving their visitors to look wondering and wise upon each other. Miss Harvey stepped to the window in time to see the tenants of the coach alight, whispering to her sister that Mademoiselle had not absolutely denied the story of the handcuffs, after all.
Free in respect of the hands, however, and apparently light of heart, the gentleman alighted, nodding to his sisters, but not entering the house till his slow-paced companion was ready to precede him. The coach was not discharged; the ladies did not at once re-enter the room; and the second person was certainly not a gentleman; but it was impossible to suppose that matters were going wrong, while M. Gaubion wore so cheerful a face. Thus decided the observers in the dining-room.
"Is it all over?--all well over?" whispered Mademoiselle, on meeting her brother.
"All brought to an issue which cannot fail," he replied. "They will have my books; and my books are the best witnesses I could bring,--eloquent, silent witnesses of my innocence."
"They do not believe you then?"