He opened the other Sibylline volume, found the date, and pointed triumphantly to the page headed ‘Numbers 5, 6, and 7,’ beneath which heading appeared formidable entries of _recherché_ dinners, choice wines, _bougies_, innumerable teas, coffees, soda-waters, baths, _voitures_, &c. &c. ‘They occupied our principal suite of apartments,’ said Monsieur Dolfe grandly; ‘the apartment we give to ambassadors and foreign potentates. There is no doubt about it—these are the people.’ Monsieur Dolfe might have added, that in this age of economic and universal travelling he did not often get such good customers. Such thought was in his mind, but Monsieur Dolfe respected the dignity of his proprietorial position, and did not give the thought utterance. This was a grand discovery. Lucius considered that to have found out the name of these people was a strong point. If the man who signed himself H. G. was this lady’s nephew, his name was in all probability Glenlyne also. The initial being the same, it was hardly too much to conclude that he was a brother’s son, and bore the family name of his maiden aunt. Lucius felt that he could now approach Mademoiselle Dumarques in a strong position. He knew so much already that she would scarcely refuse him any farther information that it was in her power to give. He had nothing to offer Monsieur and Mademoiselle Dolfe except the expression of his gratitude, and that was tendered heartily. ‘If ever I am happy enough to marry the young lady I have told you about, I will bring my wife here on our wedding tour,’ he said; a declaration at which Mademoiselle Dolfe melted almost to tears. ‘I should be very glad to see Lucille Valneau’s granddaughter,’ said Monsieur Dolfe. He too remembered the halcyon days of youth, when he had loved and dreamed his dream of happiness. Lucius slept more soundly than he had slept for many nights on the luxurious spring mattresses of number eleven, lulled by the faint ripple of the river, the occasional voices of belated pedestrians softened by distance, the hollow tramp of footsteps on the pavement. He rose early, breakfasted, and set out for the cemetery on the hill, where, after patient search, he found the Dumarques’ grave. All the family, save Julie, slumbered there. Lucille Dumarques, the faithful and beloved wife of André Dumarques—_Priez pour elle_—and then André Dumarques, and then Félicie, aged twenty-four; here there was no surname—only ‘Félicie, daughter of the above-named André Dumarques;’ and then Hortense, at the riper age of forty-one. The grave was gaily decked with a little blue-and-gold railing, enclosing a tiny flower-garden, where chrysanthemums and mignonette were blooming in decent order. The sister in Paris doubtless paid to have this family resting-place kept neatly.