On the first of the envelopes Vagualame had read one word:
"Belfort."
This was the document he had handed over to the actress the night before. After all, he was not much astonished to find that Nichoune had not passed the letter on. But the other envelope bore an address which Vagualame gazed at reflectively.
"Monsieur Bonnett,
Police Magistrate."
"She is selling us, by Jove!" he murmured. "There's not a doubt of it! The little wretch!... She has scruples, has she!... Her conscience reproaches her! I am going to give her a lesson—one of my own sort!"
Vagualame was turning the letter over and over.
"I must know its contents," he went on.... "Ah, I shall manage to get hold of this little paper, to-morrow morning, when."...
Vagualame's murmured monologue came to an abrupt conclusion.
"That's her voice!" he exclaimed. With the nimbleness of youth he put back the two letters, rapidly drew from his pocket a bundle of letters; with marvellous ability forced open a table drawer, and mixed them with others Nichoune had placed there.
"There, my little dear!" said he, aloud. "There's something to do honour to your memory!"