priest the door leading into a room adjoining the office.

Hearing some one speaking with vehemence in the cabinet of the notary, the
abbe, not wishing to hear, walked rapidly toward the door, and knocked.

"Come in," said a voice with an Italian accent, and the priest found
himself face to face with Jacques Ferrand and Polidori.

[Illustration: THE STORY IS TOLD]

It would seem that the clerks were not wrong when they prophesied the death
of their employer at no distant day. Since the flight of Cecily, the notary
was hardly to be recognized. Although his visage was of a frightful
thinness, and of a cadaverous hue, a hectic flush colored his hollow
cheeks; a nervous shivering, except when interrupted by convulsive spasms,
agitated his frame continually; his bony hands were dry and burning; his
large green spectacles concealed his bloodshot eyes, which sparkled with
the fire of a consuming fever; in a word, this sinister face betrayed the
ravages of a rapid consumption. The physiognomy of Polidori formed a
contrast with that of the notary; nothing could be more bitterly, more
coldly ironical than the expression of this scoundrel; a forest of fiery
red hair, interspersed with some silvered locks, crowned his high and
wrinkled forehead; his penetrating eyes, green as the ocean wave, were
close to his hooked nose; his mouth, with its thin lips, expressed
wickedness and sarcasm. Polidori, completely dressed in black, was seated
beside the desk of Jacques Ferrand. At the sight of the priest they both
arose.

"Well! how do you get on, my worthy M. Ferrand?" said the abbe, with
solicitude; "are you a little better?"