I heard the door opening again, and I stared in amazement at the queer figure that entered, carrying in one hand a candle and in the other a plate of food. It was a girl with legs grotesquely bowed, and in an instant I recognized the child I had rescued on the Quai des Théatins. At the same moment, the light from the candle fell upon my face, and she knew me. “You!” she cried. “You! Oh, my God!” and she let fall the candle and plate upon the floor, her legs seemed to give way beneath her, and she sat rocking herself helplessly, despair writ large upon her face. I stared at her a moment astounded, understanding nothing of her emotion. Then the words she had uttered, blushing, on the quay, came back to me--words called forth, perhaps, by the first touch of kindness she had ever known---- “I think--I should like you--very much, Monsieur!” I looked at her again, and a ray of hope came to me. Perhaps in this unfortunate creature I might find an ally. “Come,” I said, “this is not the way to help me, to spill my supper. I assure you, Mademoiselle, that I am very hungry.” She gathered up the bread and meat without a word and gave them to me. I went at them vigorously and without minding the fact that some particles of dirt from the floor still clung to them. She set the candle upright beside her and watched me with eyes dark with apprehension. As I looked at her a thought suddenly occurred to me. “Was it you,” I asked, “who went to the house in the Rue du Chantre to get Mère Fouchon’s clothing?” “Yes, Monsieur,” she said. “And you were on your way there when I picked you up on the quay?” “Yes, Monsieur.” I smiled grimly as I reflected on the extraordinary chance which had taken me there just in time to save her life. Suddenly she burst into a flood of tears. “Oh, you smile!” she sobbed. “You do not understand, then. You do not know that you are to be left here, after we are gone, and that no one will ever find you.” “Oh, yes, I have been told so,” I answered, “but I do not believe it.” She raised her head and looked at me fixedly. “You mean you will escape?” she asked, after a moment. I nodded and smiled again. “Oh, but you do not know,” she cried. “A man could not escape from here if he had the strength of a hundred men.” “Nevertheless,” I began, but the hoarse voice of Mère Fouchon interrupted me. “La Bancale,” she cried, “come here at once, and be sure to bolt the door after you.” “I must go,” she said. “I will do what I can, Monsieur.”