"But why, Monsieur, do you wish to find this old lady?" Fifi asked.
"Because, Mademoiselle, she has stolen ninety thousand francs from this bank a moment ago or given ninety thousand francs to something or other," cried the clerk, who had entirely confounded the story of Fifi's adventure, which had been imparted to him in haste and confusion.
Fifi, nearly dying with laughter, rolled away in her cab. The last glimpse she had of her late friend, the bank clerk, he had found the basket in the archway, and was declaiming with disheveled hair and wild gesticulations concerning the robbery, or the gift, he did not know which.
Fifi was not away from home more than half an hour, and when Angéline, about one o'clock, passed through the snuff-colored drawing-room, she saw Fifi, through the open door, sitting at the writing-*table in her bedroom, and scribbling away for dear life. This is what she wrote:
"Cartouche: I have got your letter and I have followed your advice—I will not say exactly how—but you will shortly see me, I think, in the dear old street of the Black Cat. Fifi."
