‘That may be at most ten years,’ said Lucius, with gallantry. ‘It is more than twenty, monsieur.’ Lucius expressed his amazement. ‘Yes, monsieur, I have kept these books more than twenty years.’ ‘You must be very tired of them, I should think,’ said Lucius, who saw that the lady was good-natured, and inclined to oblige him. ‘I am accustomed to them, monsieur, and custom endears even the driest duty. I took a week’s holiday at Dieppe last summer, for the benefit of my health, but believe me I missed my books. There was a void. Pleasure is all very well for people who are used to it, but for a woman of business—that fatigues!’ ‘The inquiry which I wish to make relates to some English people who were staying for a short time in this house—about four-and-twenty years ago, and whose names I am anxious to discover.’ Mademoiselle Dolfe elevated her black eyebrows to an almost hazardous extent. ‘But, monsieur, four-and-twenty years ago! You imagine that I can recall visitors of four-and-twenty years ago? English visitors—and this hotel is three-parts filled with English visitors every year from May to October. Thirty English visitors will sit down to-day at our table d’hôte, that is to say, English and American, all the same.’ ‘It might be impossible to remember them unassisted; yet there are circumstances connected with these people which might recall them to you. But you have books in which visitors write their names?’ ‘Yes, if it pleases them. They are even asked to write; but there is no law to compel them; there is no law to prevent them writing a false name. It is a mere formula. And if I can find the names, supposing you to know the exact date, how are we to identify them with the people you want? There are several names signed in the visitors’-book every day in our busy season. People come and go so quickly. It is an impossibility which you ask, monsieur.’ ‘I think if I had time for a quiet chat with you I might bring back the circumstances to your recollection. It is a very important matter—a matter which may seriously affect the happiness of a person very dear to me, or I would not trouble you.’ ‘A person very dear to you! Your betrothed perhaps, monsieur?’ inquired Mademoiselle Dolfe, with evident sympathy. Lucius felt that his cause was half won. ‘Yes, madame,’ he said, ‘my betrothed, whose mother was a native of your city.’