The Baron Giraud turned and looked at me. He did not recognise me for quite ten seconds.
"IT IS DEATH," I ANSWERED, WITH MY HAND INSIDE THE BARON'S SHIRT. "WHO STOLE THAT MONEY?" THE VICOMTE LOOKED AT ME. "CHARLES MISTE," HE SAID.
"Then it is not you," he said, thickly. "As you are there. You did not steal it."
"No—I did not steal it," I answered quietly, for there was a look in his face that I did not understand, while it frightened me. Suddenly his eyes shot red—his face was almost black. He fell forward into my arms, and I tore his collar off as I laid him to the ground.
"Ah, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" the Vicomte was crying as he ran hither and thither, wringing his hands, while I attended, unskillfully enough, to the stricken man. "Ah, mon Dieu! what is this?"
"It is death," I answered, with my hand inside the Baron's shirt. "Who stole that money?"
The Vicomte looked at me.
"Charles Miste," he said.