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"If you knew how happy I am to hear you say that!" she cried. "Happy! What difference can it make to you?" and he looked at her in surprise. "Of what importance is it to you whether Caffie was killed with or without a struggle? You condemned him; he is dead. That should satisfy you." "I was very wrong to pronounce this condemnation, which I did without attaching any importance to it."
While he waited at the door, asking himself this question, an idea flashed into his mind. He would make a last attempt. If Caffie consented to make the loan he would save himself; if he refused, he condemned himself. After several seconds, that appeared like hours, his listening ears perceived a sound which announced that Caffie was at home.
This button belonged to Florentin." "To your brother?" "Yes, to Florentin, who, the day of the crime, had been to see Caffie." "That is true; the concierge told the commissioner of police that he called about three o'clock." Phillis gave a cry of despair. "They know he was there? Then it is more serious than we imagined or believed."
If one must walk in the mud, what matters it, when one knows that one will not get muddy? If Caffie had had heirs, poor people who expected to be saved from misery by inheriting his fortune, he would have been touched by this consideration, undoubtedly. Robber! The word was yet more vile than that of assassin. But who would miss the few banknotes that he would take from the safe?
His widow, son, and daughter must work. The widow, having no trade, took in sewing; the son left college to become the clerk of a money-lender named Caffie; the daughter, who, happily for her, had learned to draw and paint under her father's direction, obtained pupils, and designed menacs for the stationers, and painted silk fans and boxes.
"I promise you." "Thank you very much." "If it could be to-morrow, it would suit me. I am not rich, you know, but I have always paid the gas-bill for your experiments." With the paper in his pocket, Saniel returned to Caffie, who was just going out, and to whom he gave it. "I will see about it this, evening," said the man of business. "Just now I am going to dinner. Do not worry.
Saniel was there to observe, without having decided what he should do. Instantly, with the decision that had "failed him so often during his vigil," he resolved to go to Caffie's. Was he not a doctor, and the physician of the dead-man? What could be more natural? "A money-lender!" he exclaimed. "Is it Monsieur Caffie?" "Exactly." "But I am his doctor." "A doctor!
His widow, son, and daughter must work. The widow, having no trade, took in sewing; the son left college to become the clerk of a money-lender named Caffie; the daughter, who, happily for her, had learned to draw and paint under her father's direction, obtained pupils, and designed menacs for the stationers, and painted silk fans and boxes.
"In answering a question as to whom Caffie had received that day, the concierge named your brother. But as this visit took place between three and half-past, and the crime was certainly committed between five and half-past, no one can accuse your brother of being the assassin, since he left before Caffie lighted his lamp.
Although Saniel had had no experience in business, he was not simple enough not to know that in refusing him this loan Caffie meant to make use of him. "It is very simple," he said to himself, as he went downstairs. "He undertakes to manage my affairs, and in such a way that some day I shall have to save myself by marrying that charming girl. What a scoundrel!"
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