"Major Rawson," I continued.

"He is my uncle," some one said.

"Mon. Rivolta."

"Here!" exclaimed an Italian, whose face was concealed beneath a
heavy black beard.

Miss Nelly burst into laughter, and exclaimed: "That gentleman can
scarcely be called a blonde."

"Very well, then," I said, "we are forced to the conclusion that
the guilty party is the last one on the list."

"What is his name?"

"Mon. Rozaine. Does anyone know him?"

No one answered. But Miss Nelly turned to the taciturn young man,
whose attentions to her had annoyed me, and said:

"Well, Monsieur Rozaine, why do you not answer?"

All eyes were now turned upon him. He was a blonde. I must
confess that I myself felt a shock of surprise, and the profound
silence that followed her question indicated that the others
present also viewed the situation with a feeling of sudden alarm.
However, the idea was an absurd one, because the gentleman in