‘The young lady in whom I am interested—in a word, my promised wife—is the granddaughter of this very Lucille Dumarques,’ said Lucius, to the profound astonishment of Monsieur Dolfe. He produced the miniature, which served in some manner for his credentials. ‘I remember both faces,’ said Monsieur Dolfe. ‘Félicie Dumarques, and the Englishman who stayed in this house for a week, and was seen driving about the town with Félicie. Unhappily that set people talking; but the poor child died only a month later, and carried her secret to the grave.’ ‘There was no shameful secret,’ said Lucius. ‘That man was Félicie’s husband.’ ‘Are you sure of that?’ ‘I have it from the best authority. And now, monsieur, you will do me a service if you can recall the name of that Englishman.’ ‘But it is difficult,’ exclaimed Monsieur Dolfe. ‘I was never good at remembering names, even of my own nation, and to remember an English name after twenty years—it is impossible.’ ‘Not twenty years. It cannot be more than eighteen since that Englishman was in Rouen. But do not trouble yourself, Monsieur Dolfe. Even if you remembered, it might be but wasted labour. This gentleman was especially anxious to keep his marriage a secret. He would therefore most likely come here in an assumed name.’ ‘If he troubled himself to give us any name at all,’ said Monsieur Dolfe. ‘Many of our guests are nameless—we know them only as Number 10 or Number 20, as the case may be.’ ‘But there is a name which I should be very glad if you could recall, and that is the name of the lady and gentleman—brother and sister—elderly people—who took Félicie Dumarques away with them, as attendant to the lady, when she left Rouen. As you were interested in the Dumarques’ family, that is a circumstance which you may possibly remember.’