“Nobody said so; but I supposed it was you! Who else would be so kindly interested in my doings?” Fandor made no reply to this. Here was the telephone mystery again – an alarming mystery. Elizabeth had not given her address to anyone: Fandor had been careful not to give it to a soul... Clearly this poor girl, even in the heart of the secluded convent, was not secure from some unknown, outside interference; and Fandor, optimist though he was, could not help shuddering at the thought of these mysterious adversaries, implacable and formidable, who might do harm to this unfortunate girl, whose devoted protector he now was... Besides... did he not feel for Jacques Dollon’s pretty sister something sweeter and more tender than pure sympathy?... Whenever he was near her, did he not experience a thrill of emotion? Fandor did not analyse his feelings, but they influenced him unconsciously.

He turned to Elizabeth.

“Since you cannot remain any longer at the convent, where do you think of staying?”

“Well, monsieur, I shall go back to the convent this evening, though it is painful to me – very, very, painful – to be obliged to accept their icy hospitality... as for tomorrow....”

Fandor was about to make a suggestion, when the door of Monsieur Fuselier’s room opened half-way. The magistrate’s clerk appeared, and, glancing round the passage over his spectacles, called in a dull tone:

“Monsieur Jérôme Fandor!”

“Here!” replied the journalist. “I am coming!” Then, taking a hasty farewell of Elizabeth as he went towards the magistrate’s room, he whispered:

“Wait for me, mademoiselle; and, for the love of Heaven, remember this – whatever I may say, whatever happens, whether we are alone, together, or in the presence of others, whether it be in a few minutes, or later on, do not be astonished at what may befall you, even though it be my fault – be absolutely convinced of this – whatever I may do will be for your good – more than that I must not say!” Elizabeth had not a word to reply, but his words were humming and buzzing in her ears whilst Fandor was in the magistrate’s room.

With a cordial handshake, Monsieur Fuselier began by congratulating him on having saved Elizabeth Dollon’s life.

“Ah,” said he, smiling, “you journalists have all the luck; and, between ourselves, I envy you a little, for your lucky star has led you to the discovery of a drama, and has enabled you to prevent a fatal ending to it. Now do you not think, as I do, that this Auteuil affair is not a case of suicide, but of attempted assassination?”

“There is no doubt about it,” replied Fandor quietly.

The magistrate drew himself up with a satisfied air.

“That is also my opinion – has been so from the start.” The clerk now interrupted the two men, who were talking as friends rather than as magistrate and witness, asking in a nasal tone: