He resumed: "Why that forgery?" "It was my husband," she stammered, "it was my husband who did it. With his fortune, he could do everything; and he bribed a junior clerk to have the Christian name of the second child altered for him on the register." "The Christian name and the sex," said Lupin. "Yes," she said. "Then," he continued, "I am not mistaken: the original Christian name, the real one, was Dolores?" "Yes." "But why did your husband . . . ?" She whispered in a shame-faced manner, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. "Don't you understand?" "No." "But think," she said, shuddering, "I was the sister of Isilda, the mad woman, the sister of Altenheim, the ruffian. My husband--or rather my affianced husband--would not have me remain that. He loved me. I loved him too, and I consented. He suppressed Dolores de Malreich on the register, he bought me other papers, another personality, another birth-certificate; and I was married in Holland under another maiden name, as Dolores Amonti." Lupin reflected for a moment and said, thoughtfully: "Yes . . . yes . . . I understand. . . . But then Louis de Malreich does not exist; and the murderer of your husband, the murderer of your brother and sister, does not bear that name. . . . His name. . . ." She sprang to a sitting posture and, eagerly: "His name! Yes, that is his name . . . yes, it is his name nevertheless. . . . Louis de Malreich. . . . L. M. . . . Remember. . . . Oh, do not try to find out . . . it is the terrible secret. . . . Besides, what does it matter? . . . They have the criminal. . . . He is the criminal. . . . I tell you he is. Did he defend himself when I accused him, face to face? Could he defend himself, under that name or any other? It is he . . . it is he . . . He committed the murders. . . . He struck the blows. . . . The dagger. . . . The steel dagger. . . . Oh, if I could only tell all I know! . . . Louis de Malreich. . . . If I could only . . ." She fell back on the sofa in a fit of hysterical sobbing; and her hand clutched Lupin's and he heard her stammering, amid inarticulate words: "Protect me . . . protect me. . . . You alone, perhaps. . . . Oh, do not forsake me. . . . I am so unhappy! . . . Oh, what torture . . . what torture! . . . It is hell! . . ." With his free hand, he stroked her hair and forehead with infinite gentleness; and, under his caress, she gradually relaxed her tense nerves and became calmer and quieter. Then he looked at her again and long, long asked himself what there could be behind that fair, white brow, what secret was ravaging that mysterious soul. She also was afraid. But of whom? Against whom was she imploring him to protect her? Once again, he was obsessed by the image of the man in black, by that Louis de Malreich, the sinister and incomprehensible enemy, whose attacks he had to ward off without knowing whence they came or even if they were taking place.