He entered the sitting-room and stood face to face with Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon. She came forward, her eyes shining, her face alight with welcome.

“Ah, monsieur,” she cried, taking his hands in hers, a movement of pure gratitude: “Ah, monsieur, I knew you would come to my help! I have read your article of yesterday. Thank you again and again! But, I implore you, since my brother is alive, tell me where I can see him! For mercy’s sake don’t keep me waiting!”

Surprise kept Fandor silent a moment.

La Capitale had published the evening before a sensational article by Fandor, in which, under the guise of suppositions and interrogations, he had narrated the various adventures as they had happened to himself, concluding with the question – really an ironic one: “If Jacques Dollon, who had disappeared from his cell, where he had been left for dead, had escaped from the Dépôt by way of the famous chimney of Marie Antoinette, had reached the roofs of the Palais, had redescended by another passage way to the sewer opening on to the Seine, did it not seem possible that Dollon had escaped alive from the Dépôt?”

Fandor had indulged in a gentle irony, despite the gravity of the circumstances, in order to complicate the already complicated affair, and so plunge the police into a confusion worse confounded: this, in spite of his conviction that Dollon was dead, dead as dead could be!

Now the cruelty of this professional game was brought home to him. His article had raised fresh hopes in Dollon’s poor sister! At the sight of this charming girl, brightened with hope, Fandor felt all pity and guilt. He pressed her hands; he hesitated; he was troubled. He did not know how to explain. At last he murmured:

“It was wrong of me, mademoiselle, very wrong to write that article in such a way, without warning you beforehand. Alas! You must not cherish illusions, illusions which this unfortunate article has given rise to, illusions I cannot believe in myself. I speak with all the sincerity of which I am capable, with the keenest desire to be of service to you: I dare not let you buoy yourself up with false hopes.... I assure you then, that from what I have been able to learn, to see, to know, I am convinced that your unfortunate brother is no more... If there have been moments when I have doubted this, I am now morally certain that he is dead. Take courage, mademoiselle! Try, try to forget – to – to...” Fandor was trembling with emotion: he could not continue. Elizabeth bent her head, her eyes full of tears. She could not speak. She was overcome by this cruel dashing to the ground of her hopes. Never, never, to see her brother again! An agonising silence reigned.

Fandor was profoundly troubled by this mute grief.

He sought in vain for some word of comfort, of encouragement.