"Money, madame," said the servant with her widely opened eyes still more
distending.

"I have two hundred thousand francs, that is, nearly as many marks,
coming from my good uncle who is a little late in doing me a
kindness--but my attention touched him. But do I not hear
steps--somebody at last moving in the house?"

"Very likely," replied the servant tranquilly, "but nobody will come in
here, before master has breakfast. Since he stores his secrets in that
chest, and no company drops in, this is a hermitage. Mademoiselle
Rebecca is not one of the prying sort."

Madame Clemenceau, who had risen with more nervous anxiety than she
cared to display to the servants, stood by her chair, looking toward the
door.

"Has he talked about me, sometimes?"

"Master? never--not before me, anyway, madame."

"Yet you gave him the telegram that explained all?"

"Yes, madame; but not until some time after your departure and when
master had returned from a promenade alone. I know he was alone, because
M. Antonino was racing about to show him some of his wonderful
experiments."

Beyond a doubt, it was Clemenceau who had stood witness to the tragedy
in the meadow. Hence his inattention to the Russian's despatch, which he