"You do not know La Dorada. She got the name in Madrid, where she was discovered by a café proprietor and sponsored by a grandee of Spain. La Dorada, the gilded, the golden." As they passed along the broad plaza, then to the left and up the slope of rue Port Neuf, d'Artois held forth at length concerning the colorful career of La Dorada who at first glance so strikingly resembled Antoinette Delatour. At the head of rue Port Neuf they turned to the left, past the old cathedral whose tall spires tower like silver lance-heads into the morning light, and ascended the incline to the broad drive that follows the parapet of the Lachepaillet wall. * * * * * Despite the barbarity of the hour, they found that Antoinette had disposed of her morning chocolate and rolls. She wore a negligée of jade chiffon whose curled ostrich trimming fluffed up about her ears and caressed the copper-golden hair that enhanced her resemblance to La Dorada. Her lips smiled, but her dark blue eyes were somber and haunted as she greeted Farrell and d'Artois. "_Hélas!_ It was worse than ever, last night," she replied, with a despairing gesture, to Farrell's solicitous inquiry. "But be seated, and I will tell you." She shifted her feet to make room for Farrell at the foot of the chaise-longue on which she reclined; then, as d'Artois drew up a chair, Antoinette continued, "It was terribly clear! Just fancy: my hair was jet-black, and so were my eyes. And my skin was as dark as an Arab's! They beat me most unmercifully ... as usual." She shuddered at the memory of the dream. D'Artois stared at the dainty feet and their turquoise and silver mules. As Antoinette was about to resume her remarks, he said abruptly, "In your dream, what have you been wearing? On your ankles, I mean." Antoinette closed her eyes for a moment to visualize her dream. "Heavy golden anklets set with massive uncut stones," she replied. "Emeralds, I think. But why?" "Were they _very_ heavy?" persisted d'Artois. Farrell regarded him curiously, wondering how adornments could be relevant to the case. "Terribly so!" assured Antoinette. Then, with a wan smile, "Only, I've become used to them." "Look!" commanded d'Artois, indicating the girl's ankles. "Well I'll be damned!" exclaimed Farrell, and frowned perplexedly. Then he glanced at his left hand and shifted the heavy signet on his finger. "Her ankles are marked just as my finger is by this heavy slug of a ring!" "_Voilà!_ That further indicates an interchange of bodies during the night!" declared d'Artois. "As a Syrian dancing-girl you are beaten, and the welts appear on the body of Antoinette Delatour. And the heavy anklets of the Syrian girl mark your daytime body just as they leave prints on her. "Now what else do you remember, _ma petite_? Your impressions become more distinct each time, _n'est-ce pas_? Your recollections----"