It contained first of all a registration-card, in the name of Siméon Diodokis, Greek subject, with his photograph gummed to it. The photograph was a recent one, taken with the spectacles, the comforter and the long hair, and bore a police-stamp dated December, 1914. There was a collection of business documents, invoices and memoranda, addressed to Siméon as Essarès Bey's secretary, and, among these papers, a letter from Amédée Vacherot, running as follows: "_Dear M. Siméon_, "I have succeeded. A young friend of mine has taken a snapshot of Mme. Essarès and Patrice at the hospital, at a moment when they were talking together. I am so glad to be able to gratify you. But when will you tell your dear son the truth? How delighted he will be when he hears it!" At the foot of the letter were a few words in Siméon's hand, a sort of personal note: "Once more I solemnly pledge myself not to reveal anything to my dearly-beloved son until Coralie, my bride, is avenged and until Patrice and Coralie Essarès are free to love each other and to marry." "That's your father's writing, is it not?" asked Don Luis. "Yes," said Patrice, in bewilderment. "And it is also the writing of the letters which he addressed to his friend Vacherot. Oh, it's too hideous to be true! What a man! What a scoundrel!" Siméon moved. His eyes opened and closed repeatedly. Then, coming to himself entirely, he looked at Patrice, who at once, in a stifled voice, asked: "Where's Coralie?" And, as Siméon, still dazed, seemed not to understand and sat gazing at him stupidly, he repeated, in a harsher tone: "Where's Coralie? What have you done with her? Where have you put her? She must be dying!" Siméon was gradually recovering life and consciousness. He mumbled: "Patrice. . . . Patrice. . . ." He looked around him, saw Don Luis, no doubt remembered his fight to the death with Ya-Bon and closed his eyes again. But Patrice's rage increased: "Will you attend?" he shouted. "I won't wait any longer! It'll cost you your life if you don't answer!" The man's eyes opened again, red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. He pointed to his throat to indicate his difficulty in speaking. At last, with a visible effort, he repeated: "Patrice! Is it you? . . . I have been waiting for this moment so long! . . . And now we are meeting as enemies! . . ." "As mortal enemies," said Patrice, with emphasis. "Death stands between us: Ya-Bon's death, Coralie's perhaps. . . . Where is she? You must speak, or . . ." "Patrice, is it really you?" the man repeated, in a whisper. The familiarity exasperated the officer. He caught his adversary by the lapel of his jacket and shook him. But Siméon had seen the pocket-book which he held in his other hand and, without resisting Patrice's roughness, whined: