“Mr Gustave Freyberger.” The waiter opened the door and the detective found himself in the presence of three people. An old lady with white hair, a young woman whom he recognized by instinct as Mademoiselle Lefarge, and a man of about thirty or perhaps thirty-five, clean-shaved, English-looking, and with the stamp of a barrister. The detective’s quick eye and even quicker brain took in the room and its occupants at a glance. In a moment he comprehended the status of the two women before him, but the man puzzled him. The women were French to their fingertips, but the man was English. Needless to say the man was Hellier. Cécile Lefarge gazed at the newcomer for a moment and then advanced, with hand out-stretched, in such a kindly and frank manner as quite to captivate even the unemotional Freyberger. “I need not ask you,” she said, “for I am quite sure you are the gentleman mentioned by M. Hamard as having telegraphed to Paris for an interview with me. I am Cécile Lefarge.” “Mademoiselle,” replied the detective, with a charming modesty that was half false. “The communication to M. Hamard came from the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard. I am but the humble instrument deputed by him to inquire into a certain case. A crime has been committed in England. In the investigation of the matter, I, by a strange chance, came upon the records of a crime committed in Paris—” “Eight years ago.” “Pardon me, mademoiselle, eight years and five months ago.” “You are exact.” “I am exact, but before I proceed, I must ask you to excuse me. This is an important matter. In speaking of it I wish to be sure of whom I am addressing. You are Mademoiselle Lefarge, this lady—” “Is my aunt, Madame de Warens.” “Thank you, and this gentleman?” Cécile Lefarge blushed slightly. “He is our very good friend, Mr Hellier.” Hellier produced his visiting card and handed it to Freyberger. “That is my name and address,” said he. “I assure you that anything you say before me will not pass beyond me. Mademoiselle Lefarge has entrusted me with the painful details of the case that occurred in Paris eight years ago, and I have made investigations myself in the matter. I have spent some time in Paris studying the reports of the case, and I may be able to assist you in an humble way, if my assistance would not be out of place.” Freyberger bowed very stiffly. He had a horror of the amateur detective, the Gyde case was his own especial problem, he wished for no help in its solution. “Thank you,” he said. Then turning to Mademoiselle Lefarge: “I like to be always perfectly frank, I have brought you a long journey, my message was urgent, yet I can give you no word of hope on the question that has troubled your heart for eight years.” “Hope!” “My meaning is this, I can give you no hope that M. Lefarge is alive.” “Alive! Ah, no! He is dead, my dear father is dead, some instinct has long told me that; all I hope for is revenge.”