“He asked me at once what money I had--Then there seemed to be no doubt in his mind that I would join him--We spoke of you--the friend who could advise me--He never said--what he said afterwards--I thought it kind of him to consent to see you--I rang the bell and sent the chasseur for you. I supposed Anastasius had gone home--I never thought of him. The poor little man was sweet to me, just like a dog--a silent, sympathetic dog--I spoke to him as I would to something that wouldn't understand--all sorts of foolish things--Now and then a woman has to empty her heart”--she shivered--her hands before her face. “It's my fault, it's my fault.” “These things are no one's fault,” I said gently. But just as I was beginning to console her with what thumb-marked scraps of platitude I could collect--the only philosophy after all, such is the futility of systems, adequate to the deep issues of life--the door opened and the manager announced that the police had arrived. We went through the ordeal of the _proces-verbal_. Anastasius, confronted with his victim, had no memory of what had occurred. He shrieked and shrank and hid his face in Lola's dress. When he was forced to speak he declared that the dead man was not Captain Vauvenarde. Captain Vauvenarde was at the Cercle Africain. He, himself, was seeking him. He would take the gendarmes there, and they could arrest the Captain for the murder of Sultan of which his papers contained indubitable proofs. Eventually the poor little wretch was led away in custody, proud and smiling, entirely convinced that he was leading his captors to the arrest of Captain Vauvenarde. On the threshold he turned and bowed to us so low that the brim of his silk hat touched the floor. Then Lola's nerve gave way and she broke into a passion of awful weeping. The _commissaire de police_ secured the long thin knife (how the dwarf had managed to conceal it on his small person was a mystery) and the bundle of documents, and accompanied me to my room to see whether he had left anything there to serve as a _piece de conviction_. We found only the crumpled picture of the horse Sultan neatly pinned against my bedroom wall, and on the floor a ribbon tied like a garter with a little bell opposite the bow. On it was written “Santa Bianca,” and I knew it was the collar of the beloved cat which he must have been carrying about him for a talisman. The _commissaire_ took this also.