Dolores rose in her seat, very excitedly: "Oh, you are . . ." "Yes." She stammered: "Really? . . . Is it you? . . . I do not recognize you." "You don't recognize Prince Paul Sernine?" "No . . . everything is different . . . the forehead . . . the eyes. . . . And that is not how the . . ." "How the newspapers represented the prisoner at the Santé?" he said, with a smile. "And yet it is I, really." A long silence followed, during which they remained embarrassed and ill at ease. At last, he asked: "May I know the reason . . . ?" "Did not Geneviève tell you? . . ." "I have not seen her . . . but her grandmother seemed to think that you required my services . . ." "That's right . . . that's right. . . ." "And in what way . . . ? I am so pleased . . ." She hesitated a second and then whispered: "I am afraid." "Afraid?" he cried. "Yes," she said, speaking in a low voice, "I am afraid, afraid of everything, afraid of to-day and of to-morrow . . . and of the day after . . . afraid of life. I have suffered so much. . . . I can bear no more." He looked at her with great pity in his eyes. The vague feeling that had always drawn him to this woman took a more precise character now that she was asking for his protection. He felt an eager need to devote himself to her, wholly, without hope of reward. She continued: "I am alone now, quite alone, with servants whom I have picked up on chance, and I am afraid. . . . I feel that people are moving about me." "But with what object?" "I do not know. But the enemy is hovering around and coming closer." "Have you seen him? Have you noticed anything?" "Yes, the other day two men passed several times in the street and stopped in front of the house." "Can you describe them?" "I saw one of them better than the other. He was tall and powerful, clean-shaven and wore a little black cloth jacket, cut quite short." "A waiter at a café, perhaps?" "Yes, a head-waiter. I had him followed by one of my servants. He went down the Rue de la Pompe and entered a common-looking house. The ground-floor is occupied by a wine-shop: it is the first house in the street, on the left. Then, a night or two ago, I saw a shadow in the garden from my bedroom window." "Is that all?" "Yes." He thought and then made a suggestion: "Would you allow two of my men to sleep downstairs, in one of the ground-floor rooms?" "Two of your men? . . ." "Oh, you need not be afraid! They are decent men, old Charolais and his son,[9] and they don't look in the least like what they are. . . . You will be quite safe with them. . . . As for me . . ." [Footnote 9: See _Arsène Lupin_, by Edgar Jepson and Maurice Leblanc.] He hesitated. He was waiting for her to ask him to come again. As she was silent, he said: "As for me, it is better that I should not be seen here. . . . Yes, it is better . . . for your sake. My men will let me know how things go on. . . ."