I rushed to my room and to my glass, eagerly scanning the reflection therein to see if any change in my appearance within the last few days could cause people thus to avoid me, suspect me, and treat me as if contaminated. It was the same insignificant face I had known from childhood, with what my other self called a "stupidly innocent expression." I next thought of examining the portrait, taking it from the wall for this purpose. It was certainly modern: the slightest acquaintance with art settled this beyond doubt. (I must here acknowledge that my second self is rather a cultivated man; his discrimination has often been praised by the members of our firm; and it is owing to his delicate taste that I have been sent several times to Belgium to make large purchases of lace for our house; therefore I could rely on his judgment in this matter.) But might it not conceal another? I held it between me and the light, and could see through it, not only where there were holes, but everywhere between the interstices of the thinly-painted, badly-made canvas. I turned the back: there was nothing but the name of the seller stamped upon it: it was not likely he would remember who had bought this particular article. There was no frame, and I detached the cloth from the stretcher, that nothing might escape me. Not the slightest clew--no bit of paper, message or token. I put back the tacks, and was hanging my unsolved puzzle on the wall when I heard a knock at the door. This time it was my _bonâ-fide_ washerwoman, who came for the soiled clothes the other in her hasty retreat had forgotten, and as she gathered them together I carelessly asked after the fair unknown. "She is my niece," was the reply. "Does she live with you?" "No: she lives in the country." "Where?" "I don't know." "What is her name?" "I don't know." By this time the dame ended her task by tying the clothes in a bundle, and seemed in haste to be off. "Is it not rather strange that you should know neither your niece's name nor where she lives?" "I don't care," she said, defiantly resting a hand on either hip: "I will have nothing more to do with it." Here the bundle at her feet received a kick which sent it spinning over the floor, and she would have left the room had I not stood in her way. "Why did you begin it?" I asked quickly, seeing here a chance of solving the mystery. "She would take no refusal; and besides, she gave me twenty francs." "What for?" "Merely to allow her to carry home your wash. I hope you found nothing missing?" "Nothing. But listen: I will give you another twenty francs if you tell me all you know about her." "Make it thirty," she said eagerly. "It shall be thirty." "The young girl--" "The brown-eyed one who brought my wash?"