“When the concierge saw me return,” Phillis began, “she showed a certain surprise; but she is a good woman, who is easily tamed, and I had not much trouble in making her tell me all she knows of Madame Dammauville.  Three years ago Madame Dammauville became a widow without children.  She is about forty years of age, and since her widowhood has lived in her house in the Rue Sainte-Anne.  Until last year she was not ill, but she went every year to the springs at Lamoulon.  It is a year since she was taken with pains that were thought to be rheumatic, following which, paralysis attacked her and confined her to her bed.  She suffers so much sometimes that she cries, but these are spasms that do not last.  In the intervals she lives the ordinary life, except that she does not get up.  She reads a great deal, receives her friends, her sister-in-law—­widow of a notary—­her nephews and nieces, and one of the vicars of the parish, for she is very charitable.  Her eyes are excellent.  She has never had delirium or hallucinations.  She is very reserved, detests gossip, and above everything seeks to live quietly.  The assassination of Caffie exasperated her; she would let no one speak to her of him, and she spoke of it to no one.  She even said that if she were in a condition to leave her house, she would sell it, so that she would never hear the name of Caffie.”

“How did she speak of the portrait and of the man she saw in Caffie’s office?” Saniel asked.

“That is exactly the question that the concierge was not able to answer; so I decided to go to see Madame Dammauville again.”

“You are courageous,” the mother said with pride.

“I assure you that I was not so on going up-stairs.  After what I had heard of her character, it was truly audacious to go a second time, after an interval of two hours, to trouble her, but it was necessary.  While ascending, I sought a reason to justify, or, at least, to explain my second visit, and I found only an adventurous one, for which I ought to ask your indulgence.”

She said this on turning toward Saniel, but with lowered eyes, without daring to look at him, and with an emotion that made him uneasy.

“My indulgence?” he said.

“I acted without having time to reflect, and under the pressure of immediate need.  As Madame Dammauville expressed surprise at seeing me again, I told her that what she had said to me was so serious, and might have such consequences for the life and honor of my brother, that I had thought of returning the next day, accompanied by a person familiar with the affair, before whom she would repeat her story; and that I came to ask her permission to present this person.  This person is yourself.”  “I!”

“And that is why,” she said feebly, without raising her eyes, “that I have need of your indulgence.”

“But I had told you—­” he exclaimed with a violence that the dissatisfaction at being so disposed of was not sufficient to justify.