“Maxime!” she murmured, her tone vibrant with tender affection. “Maxime! You have been away so long!” _She spoke in French!_ Chassaigne jumped in his chair, but before he could utter a word, a new voice spoke sharply. “Ottilie!” The two officers turned to the doorway to see Doctor Breidenbach standing there, his face clouded with menace, his eyes angry. The young woman started, looked wildly about her in the bewilderment of one suddenly aroused from sleep. Then after one horrified glance at her attire, an amazed stare at the two officers, she sank down on to a chair and covered her face with her hands. Trembling violently in every nerve of her body, she crouched there in a misery of shame, too overwhelmed to utter a sound. The German advanced into the room, stood over her. “Ottilie! Come away at once!” Vincent, now on his feet, flushed with rage at the brutal tone of the command, comprehensible enough to him despite his ignorance of the language. Chassaigne went quietly behind the German, locked the door, and slipped the key in his pocket. Breidenbach, his eyes fixed on the girl, reiterated his command. “Monsieur!” broke from Vincent in an angry expostulation which ignored his comrade’s gesture to silence. The German looked round upon him, forcing his face to a smile in which the vivid blue eyes behind the pince-nez failed to participate. “You are certainly entitled to some explanation of this unseemly occurrence, gentlemen,” he said in French. His voice, perfectly controlled and reinforcing his smile, suggested an appreciation of piquancy in this equivocal situation, invited the sense of humour of the Gallic temperament. “I need not tell you that Fräulein Rosenhagen is entirely innocent of any intent to disturb you. She is, I may say, under my medical care. She suffers from somnambulism, and you will understand that it is comprehensible she should wander to this room where she is accustomed to receive treatment.” Vincent, with difficulty, controlled himself to silence in obedience to his friend’s warning glance. Chassaigne stepped forward. “Quite, monsieur,” he said, easily, smiling as though he fully appreciated the position from all points of view. “A case of abnormal subconscious activity. I am myself greatly interested, professionally, in this common neuro-pathological symptom. May I suggest that, since your patient has come here in response to an obscure instinctive desire for the accustomed treatment of which she is doubtless in need, you now satisfy her? I should esteem it a privilege to assist at a demonstration of your methods.” The German’s eyes flashed a suspicion that was instantly veiled. “The hour is late, monsieur,” he said, coldly. Chassaigne shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. “In our profession, monsieur--the service of humanity,” he said with sly malice, “one is on duty at all hours.” The German’s eyes expressed frank hostility. “I do not consider it advisable,” he said. His tone was curt.