She had sent off her manservant, and was preparing to take the tram back to Auteuil. Fandor asked if he might accompany her, and Madame Bourrat was only too delighted to have a chance of further talk with the journalist, for she had a lively desire to learn all she could about the extraordinary drama in which she found herself involved.

When they arrived at Auteuil, Madame Bourrat had learned nothing definite, for the journalist had given only evasive answers to her questions. Still, one point was obvious: Madame Bourrat considered Monsieur Jérôme Fandor as the kindest man in the world, and she was disposed to help him to the utmost of her powers, in defence of any interests he wished to safeguard.

Madame Bourrat was absolutely set on receiving Monsieur Fandor in her private apartments. She then seized the opportunity to complain of the trouble this affair had brought into her regular and peaceful existence. Certainly, in summer, her boarders were less numerous; their numbers being, in fact, reduced to two or three.

This season there had been fewer than usual; but the accident, or attempted assassination of Mademoiselle Dollon, had undoubtedly brought discredit on the house. An old paralysed gentleman, who had been in residence on the day of the drama, had departed the day after. There was now not a single boarder in the house: it was empty.

Having made certain that her manservant, Jules, and her cook, Marianne, had retired to their respective rooms, Madame Bourrat conducted Fandor as far as the door of her dwelling. They had been so interested in their talk that they had forgotten all about dinner: their experiences of the past few hours had left them with little appetite. It was about nine o’clock; night had fallen: house and garden were wrapped in a mantle of darkness.

“Can you find your way?” asked Madame Bourrat. If she accompanied the journalist to her garden gate she would have to grope back to the house in the dark, and alone! Her nerves were shaken by recent events. She did not wish to venture forth and back in the ominous gloom of night, even on the familiar path of her own garden. What might that darkness be hiding! What robbers, what murderers, might there not be lurking nearby?”

Fandor laughed.

“Why of course I can, madame! To find the points of the compass, to cultivate the sense of locality, is part of a journalist’s profession.”

“Do not forget to draw closed behind you – it needs a strong pull – the gate which separates us from the street: once shut, no one can open it from outside.” Fandor, shaking hands with the boarding-house keeper, promised to shut fast the gate. As the sound of his steps on the gravel grew fainter, as the gate fell to with a loud noise, and an absolute silence ensued, Madame Bourrat felt sure that her guest had left the garden – had gone away.