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.