‘I recall it perfectly,’ cried Monsieur Dolfe, ‘that is to say, the circumstance, but as for the name, it is gone out of my poor head. But in this case I think the books will show. Tell me the year—four-and-twenty years ago, you say. It was in the autumn, I remember. They had been here before, and were excellent customers. The lady an invalid, small, pale, fragile. The gentleman also small and pale, but apparently in fair health. He had a valet with him. But the lady’s-maid had fallen ill on the road. They had sent her back to her people. But I remember perfectly. It was my idea to recommend Félicie Dumarques. Her father, with whom I kept on civil terms—in my heart of hearts I detested him, but an hotel-keeper must have no opinions—had told me his youngest girl was unhappy at home since her mother’s death, and wanted a situation as useful companion—or even maid—to a lady. The little pale old lady looked as if she would be kind—the little pale old gentleman was evidently rich. There could not be much work to do, and there would doubtless be liberal pay. In a word, the situation seemed made for Félicie. I sent for her—the old lady was delighted, and engaged her on the spot. She was to have twenty-five pounds a year, and to be treated like a lady. There is the whole story, monsieur.’ ‘A thousand thanks for it. But the name.’ ‘Ah, how you are impatient! We will come to that presently. Think, Florine,’ to Mademoiselle Dolfe, who rejoiced in this euphonious name, ‘you were a girl at the time, but you must have some recollection of the circumstances.’ Florine Dolfe shook her head with a sentimental air; indeed, sentiment seemed to run in the Dolfe family. ‘Alas, I remember but too well,’ she said. ‘It was in the year when—when I believed that there was perfect happiness upon the earth;’ namely, before she had been jilted by the faithless Gustave. ‘It was early in September.’ ‘Bring me volume six of the daybook and volume one of the visitors’-book,’ said Monsieur Dolfe, pointing to the shelves. His niece brought two bulky volumes, and laid them on the table before the proprietor. He turned the leaves with a solemn air, as if he had just completed the purchase of the last of the Sibylline volumes. ‘September ’41,’ said Monsieur Dolfe, running his puny forefinger along the list of names. ‘2d, Binks, Jones, Dulau, Yokes, Stokes, Delphin.’ Lucius listened intently for some good English name with the initial G. ‘3d, Purdon, Green, Vancing, Thomas, Binoteau, Gaspard, Smith.’ Lucius shook his head despondently. ‘4th, Lomax, Trevor, Dupuis, Glenlyne.’ Lucius laid his hand on the puffy forefinger. ‘Halt there,’ he said, ‘that sounds like a good name.’ ‘Good name or bad name,’ exclaimed the proprietor, ‘those are the people—Mr. Reginald Glenlyne, Miss Glenlyne, and servant, from Switzerland, _en route_ for London. Those are the people. Yes, I remember perfectly. Now look at the daybook.’