“Something can be attempted, my dear fellow. I promise nothing.” He rose from his chair. “Now, I want you to promise to keep quiet--not to interfere. Fortunately, I speak German, and can talk to her in the language she believes to be her own. Wait a minute.” He roved round the room, opening the cupboards under the bookcases, the drawers in the writing-table by the window. “Ah, here we are!” he ejaculated. He held up a small silver mirror which revolved quickly upon its single support under the motion of his fingers. “I expected that our friend the doctor would possess this little instrument.” He smiled. “Very considerate of him to go out and leave us to ourselves! Now we will try and profit by the circumstance. I am going to find that young lady and bring her to you. You will maintain the attitude of a complete stranger who regrets an impulsive familiarity for which a mistake in identity is responsible. Master yourself!” He put the little mirror on the table and went out of the room. A few moments later he returned, held the door wide open for the young woman to enter. He spoke in fluent German. “My young friend, Fräulein, will not be consoled until he has had the opportunity of a personal apology!” The young woman inclined her head gravely, and somewhat shyly advanced to the centre of the room. Vincent rose to his feet, his face deadly white, trembling in every limb, and bowed. Ignorant of German, he could not utter a word. Chassaigne turned to him, spoke to him in French. “Look closely at Fräulein Rosenhagen, _mon ami_--and satisfy yourself.” The muscles of his face tense under the effort to repress his emotion, to appear normal, the young man looked at her for a long moment. She returned his gaze without a quiver of the eyelids, smiled with the kindliness which sets a stranger at his ease. “It is she--it is she,” he muttered, hoarsely. “I swear it!” Chassaigne turned to the young woman. “My young friend is much affected by your extraordinary resemblance to a lady he knew, Fräulein,” he said, smilingly, in German. “But he perceives now that he was mistaken. You will, I am sure, pardon an emotion that a person of your charm will readily understand. My friend was greatly attached to the lady he thought he recognised in you.” The young woman smiled upon Vincent in feminine sympathy for a lover. “Is she a German?” she asked in a rich deep voice that made him start. Chassaigne replied for him. “No, Fräulein--she is a Frenchwoman brought to Germany against her will.” He observed her narrowly as he spoke. Her face remained calm. His words, evidently, awakened no latent memory in her. “How dreadful!” she said. Her rich voice vibrated on a note of unfeigned sympathy which was, nevertheless, impersonal. “Poor man! And he does not know where she is!”