Her shoes were of the finest kid, shiny at the toes like tiny mirrors, whilst her dainty ankles were framed in the filmy lace frills of her pantalets.

Within the wide brim of her bonnet her exquisite face appeared like a rosebud nestling in a basket.  She smiled when I rose to greet her, gave me a look that sent my susceptible heart a-flutter and caused me to wish that I had not taken that bottle-green coat of mine to the Mont de Piete only last week.  I offered her a seat, which she took, arranging her skirts about her with inimitable grace.

“One moment,” I added, as soon as she was seated, “and I am entirely at your service.”

I took up pen and paper—­an unfinished letter which I always keep handy for the purpose—­and wrote rapidly.  It always looks well for a lawyer or an agent confidentiel to keep a client waiting for a moment or two while he attends to the enormous pressure of correspondence which, if allowed to accumulate for five minutes, would immediately overwhelm him.  I signed and folded the letter, threw it with a nonchalant air into a basket filled to the brim with others of equal importance, buried my face in my hands for a few seconds as if to collect my thoughts, and finally said: 

“And now, Mademoiselle, will you deign to tell me what procures me the honour of your visit?”

The lovely creature had watched my movements with obvious impatience, a frown upon her exquisite brow.  But now she plunged straightway into her story.

“Monsieur,” she said with that pretty, determined air which became her so well, “my name is Estelle Bachelier.  I am an orphan, an heiress, and have need of help and advice.  I did not know to whom to apply.  Until three months ago I was poor and had to earn my living by working in a milliner’s shop in the Rue St. Honore.  The concierge in the house where I used to lodge is my only friend, but she cannot help me for reasons which will presently be made clear to you.  She told me, however, that she had a nephew named Theodore, who was clerk to M. Ratichon, advocate and confidential agent.  She gave me your address; and as I knew no one else I determined to come and consult you.”

I flatter myself, that though my countenance is exceptionally mobile, I possess marvellous powers for keeping it impassive when necessity arises.  In this instance, at mention of Theodore’s name, I showed neither surprise nor indignation.  Yet you will readily understand that I felt both.  Here was that man, once more revealed as a traitor.  Theodore had an aunt of whom he had never as much as breathed a word.  He had an aunt, and that aunt a concierge—­ipso facto, if I may so express it, a woman of some substance, who, no doubt, would often have been only too pleased to extend hospitality to the man who had so signally befriended her nephew; a woman, Sir, who was undoubtedly possessed of savings which both reason and gratitude would cause her to invest in an old-established and substantial business run by a trustworthy and capable man, such, for instance, as the bureau of a confidential agent in a good quarter of Paris, which, with the help of a little capital, could be rendered highly lucrative and beneficial to all those, concerned.