"The Vicomte has gone out, as is his custom before déjeûner, and your twenty millions are, so far as I know, safe in this house. I have not the keeping of either."
"But you took the responsibility," snapped the Baron.
"For all that I am worth—namely, one hundred and twenty pounds a year, out of which I have to find my livery."
"Can you go out and find the Vicomte? I will wait here," asked the Baron, in the utmost distress. It is indeed love that makes the world go round—love of money.
"I know where he is usually to be found," was my reply, "and can go and seek him. I will return here in half an hour if I fail to find him."
"Yes—yes; go, my good sir—go! And God be with you!" With which inappropriate benediction he almost pushed me out of the room.
On making inquiries of the servants, I found my task more difficult than I had anticipated. Monsieur de Clericy had not taken the carriage, as was his habit. He had gone out on foot, carrying, as the butler told me, a bundle of papers in his hand.
"They had the air of business papers of value—so closely he held them," added the man.
He had taken the direction of the Boulevard, with the intention, it appeared, of calling a cab. I hurried, however, to the Vicomte's favourite club, and learned that he had not been seen there. His habits being more or less known to me, I prosecuted my search in such quarters as seemed likely, but without success.
At the Cercle de l'Union I ran against John Turner, who was reading the Times there.