The minute hand moved on. The pistols were loaded; he stretched forth his hand, took one up, and murmured his daughter’s name. Then he laid it down, seized his pen, and wrote a few words. It seemed to him as if he had not taken a sufficient farewell of his beloved daughter. Then he turned again to the clock, counting time now not by minutes, but by seconds.
He took up the deadly weapon again, his lips parted and his eyes fixed on the clock, and then shuddered at the click of the trigger as he cocked the pistol.
At this moment of mortal anguish the cold sweat came forth upon his brow, a pang stronger than death clutched at his heartstrings. He heard the door of the staircase creak on its hinges—the clock gave its warning to strike eleven—the door of his study opened.
Morrel did not turn round—he expected these words of Cocles, “The agent of Thomson & French.”
He placed the muzzle of the pistol between his teeth. Suddenly he heard a cry—it was his daughter’s voice. He turned and saw Julie. The pistol fell from his hands.
“My father!” cried the young girl, out of breath, and half dead with joy—“saved, you are saved!” And she threw herself into his arms, holding in her extended hand a red, netted silk purse.
“Saved, my child!” said Morrel; “what do you mean?”
“Yes, saved—saved! See, see!” said the young girl.
Morrel took the purse, and started as he did so, for a vague remembrance reminded him that it once belonged to himself. At one end was the receipted bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the other was a diamond as