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 began searching in his pocket-book for the draft at sight, which he had procured of the Rothschilds before leaving Paris. But he searched for it in vain. There was no doubt about it—he had been robbed!

He found himself, as the Bohemians say, flat on his back. The landlord stared at him, and he thought he heard him mutter, "Adventurer!" Verne took his "Swedish Guide," which he was learning by heart, under his arm, and wandered about the city, calling on all the bankers to apprise them of his misfortune, and warn them lest the robber should forge his name.

After three days of going backwards and forwards, our unhappy author climbed up to the last banker's, with his guide-book, as usual, under his arm. He placed the book on the desk, and began to tell the clerk of his misfortune. The latter, indifferent to the tale, took up Verne's book and began carelessly turning over its leaves. As he was doing this, a slip of paper, which served as a mark in the middle of a chapter, fell out on the floor.

The clerk took it up, and unfolding it, cried: "Why here's your draft, after all!"

I leave you to imagine Verne's triumphant entrance into his hotel.