THEY left the ramparts and returned to the hotel. She left him in the hall for a moment, and then returned, and asked him to follow her.

He followed her to a door on the first floor landing; she opened it, and led him into a sitting-room, where in an armchair beside a blazing wood fire sat old Madame de Warens muffled up in a light shawl, with a novel open upon her lap, asleep.

It was no ordinary hotel sitting-room, this daintily upholstered room. It had, in fact, been entirely redecorated by a Parisian firm three years before, when the two women had decided to take up their quarters for good at the hotel.

The old lady by the fire awoke with a start when she heard them enter, welcomed Hellier with a little old-fashioned bow, and relapsed into her chair, whilst the girl, laying her gloves, which she had drawn off, upon the table, went to a door leading into another room, opened it, and motioned the young man to follow her.

He followed her into a bedroom. A woman’s bedroom. On the dressing-table lay silver hair brushes and all the odds and ends of a woman’s toilet, the little bed stood virginal-looking and white as snow, a row of tiny boots and shoes stood by one wall.

On a table, in a corner near the bed, stood something dismal and dark.

Something veiled with crêpe. The girl went to this object and removed the covering. She disclosed a bust.

The marble bust of a man. A marvellous piece of work.

A man of middle age with a pointed beard. A jolly-looking man, a forceful face and a lovable face, roguish a bit, with that old Gallic spirit that makes fun in public of the things that Englishmen laugh over in private, yet benevolent.

The face of a man who begins life as a delightful companion, and ends it as a delightful grandfather.

Looking at him one would say, “He might act foolishly, but he could do no real wrong, I would trust him with my last shilling—”

“He was my father,” said the girl, as Hellier gazed upon the marble, that, under the chisel of some masterhand, spoke, laughed and diffused jollity around it.

“He was my father and he was a murderer—so the world says.”

Hellier turned slightly aside and placed his hand to the side of his head; he could not speak.

The shocking statement was made in such a calm voice. A calmness that spoke of what suffering endured, what shame, what ruin.

She arranged the dismal crêpe around the joyous thing.

Then she turned to lead him back to the sitting-room, and as she turned, unable to speak, unable even to think what to say, he took her hand and pressed it.

“I know,” she replied.

He followed her into the sitting-room, and quite regardless of the old lady by the fire, she led him to one of the windows.

Merridew’s library lay opposite, and as they stood and she talked to him they watched the people entering the shop and the people walking on the pavement.

“It was eight years ago,” she said. “I have not changed my name—you must have heard of the case. It was the Lefarge case—ah no?” She paused for a moment, “eight years ago. I cannot tell you the details, but it was in the spring. An artist made that bust of my dear father. The artist’s name was Müller; he had the face of a demon. I saw him twice, and his face still haunts my dreams. I see it now before me as I talk to you. It was a pale face, a weary face, the face of a man who has known all evil.

“He was a great artist, his name was Müller, a German, who lived in the Quartier Latin. He was known as the madman. My dear father allowed him to make that bust, gave him sittings, twice invited him to our house.

“When I saw this awful man,” went on the girl, her voice sinking lower, “I felt as though I had seen evil itself. I implored my father to have nothing to do with him. He laughed. He had no fear of evil. He was all good.

“He called at Müller’s studio one day; listen to me, my friend, for this is what the world says, he called at Müller’s studio one day and murdered him.

“Listen to me, he murdered him, disappeared, and was never seen again. He decapitated Müller, and the headless body was found in the studio. That is what the world says. But he did not do it, I know, for I feel it here where I place my hand.”

She placed her little hand, not to her side, but towards the centre of the breast, where the heart really lies.

“It is terrible,” murmured Hellier.

“Terrible—oh, you cannot think!—and now you know why it can never be.”

“If his innocence were proved?” asked he.

“Ah, then—,” she replied.

Hellier took her hand and held it in both of his.

“Listen to me,” he said. “I have seen much of life and men, I do not say it to please you or comfort you, but the face you have shown me is a face incapable of—that. If I could stake my life, and if it were possible for me to stake it upon your father’s innocence, I would do so. I am a member of the English Bar; after what you have told me of the barrier between us, a barrier which is no barrier to me, I will do all that in me lies to remove it. Nothing may come of my efforts, everything may. When a man works from love he goes doubly armed. Tell me, my friend, where I can learn the details of your trouble, not from your lips, for that would be too painful—have you no papers—”

“I have the dossier of the case,” replied Mademoiselle Lefarge. “I will place it in your hands; I have belief in you. When I first saw you, something drew me towards you, perhaps it was the spirit of my father—for I feel that he is no more—perhaps it was his spirit pointing out to me his avenger, perhaps—” She paused.

“Yes,” said Hellier.

“Perhaps,” she said, “it was an instinct that told me that some day—”

“Yes.”

“Some day, I should love you.”

The next afternoon Hellier returned to London.