“Mademoiselle has also come to make a statement regarding this affair,” he explained. “That is why she is so interested in what you have just told us.... But tell us how you saw Jacques Dollon escape!”

“Well, I had got up a bit earlier than usual to see that the anchors and mooring were all right, and I thought I saw what looked like a big bundle fall into the river from the sewer opening – only I was half asleep and didn’t take much notice; for, what with all the rain we’ve been having, there’s no end of filthy stuff tumbling out of the mouth of the sewers. But, a few minutes after that, I noticed that the bundle, instead of going with the flow of the current, was drifting across the Seine, plainly making for the bank. There could be no mistake about that.”

Elizabeth Dollon cried:

“And then? And then?”

“Then, my little lady, what if this surprise packet didn’t turn off behind an arch of the Pont Neuf! I didn’t see what became of it – but no one will get it out of my head that it isn’t some crafty dog who had no wish to show himself – that’s what I think!”

The keeper paused, then went on:

“That’s all I have to tell you, Monsieur Fandor... it might serve for one of your articles sometime or other.. only you mustn’t say that I told you. I might get into trouble with my chiefs about it!”

Elizabeth Dollon was no longer listening. She had turned to Fandor, and with shining eyes murmured:

“He lives!... He lives!...”

Fandor thanked the keeper, and got rid of him. As soon as the door closed on him he darted to Elizabeth.

“Poor child!” he cried, full of pity for her.

“Ah! Don’t pity me! I don’t need your pity now! My brother is alive!... That man has seen him!” Fandor had to undeceive her.

“Your brother is certainly dead,” he declared. “If he were the individual in question, it would not have been yesterday morning, but the morning before, when the keeper saw him; and I do assure you...”

“But this good fellow is not telling the truth then?”

“I assure you that I have good reasons, the best of reasons, for believing, for being certain, that the swimmer who crossed the Seine was not your brother.”

“Great Heaven! Who was it then?”

Fandor hesitated a moment... Should he divulge his secret? All he said was:

“It was not your brother – I know that.”

So decisive was his tone, so great the sympathy vibrating through his words, that Elizabeth Dollon, once more convinced that Fandor was not speaking at random, bent her head and shed tears of deepest grief and bitter disappointment.

Fandor allowed the sorrow-stricken girl to give way to her grief for a few minutes; then he gently asked her: