"Where?" asked Siméon, with visible concern. "You'll never guess. On a barge, yes, called the _Nonchalante_, moored at the Quai de Passy, alongside Berthou's Wharf." "Is it possible?" said Siméon. "It's as I tell you. And do you know how the letter was signed? It was signed Grégoire." "Grégoire? A man's name?" muttered the old man, almost with a groan. "Yes, a man's name. Look, I have the letter on me. She tells me that she is leading a very dangerous life, that she distrusts the man with whom her fortunes are bound up and that she would like to ask my advice." "Then . . . then you went?" "Yes, I was there this morning, while you were ringing up here. Unfortunately . . ." "Well?" "I arrived too late. Grégoire, or rather Mme. Mosgranem, was dead. She had been strangled." "So you know nothing more than that?" asked Siméon, who seemed unable to get his words out. "Nothing more about what?" "About the man whom she mentioned." "Yes, I do, for she told me his name in the letter. He's a Greek, who calls himself Siméon Diodokis. She even gave me a description of him. I haven't read it very carefully." He unfolded the letter and ran his eyes down the second page, mumbling: "A broken-down old man. . . . Passes himself off as mad. . . . Always goes about in a comforter and a pair of large yellow spectacles. . . ." Dr. Géradec ceased reading and looked at Siméon with an air of amazement. Both of them sat for a moment without speaking. Then the doctor said: "You are Siméon Diodokis." The other did not protest. All these incidents were so strangely and, at the same time, so naturally interlinked as to persuade him that lying was useless. "This alters the situation," declared the doctor. "The time for trifling is past. It's a most serious and terribly dangerous matter for me, I can tell you! You'll have to make it a million." "Oh, no!" cried Siméon, excitedly. "Certainly not! Besides, I never touched Mme. Mosgranem. I was myself attacked by the man who strangled her, the same man--a negro called Ya-Bon--who caught me up and took me by the throat." "Ya-Bon? Did you say Ya-Bon?" "Yes, a one-armed Senegalese." "And did you two fight?" "Yes." "And did you kill him?" "Well . . ." The doctor shrugged his shoulders with a smile: "Listen, sir, to a curious coincidence. When I left the barge, I met half-a-dozen wounded soldiers. They spoke to me and said that they were looking for a comrade, this very Ya-Bon, and also for their captain, Captain Belval, and a friend of this officer's and a lady, the lady they were staying with. All these people had disappeared; and they accused a certain person . . . wait, they told me his name. . . . Oh, but this is more and more curious! The man's name was Siméon Diodokis. It was you they accused! . . . Isn't it odd? But, on the other hand, you must confess that all this constitutes fresh facts and therefore . . ." There was a pause. Then the doctor formulated his demand in plain tones: