"But the name? Coralie? My father used to call her Louise." "Your mother's name was Louise Coralie Countess Odolavitch." "Oh, my mother!" she murmured. "My poor darling mother! Then it was she who was murdered. It was for her that I was praying over the way?" "For her, Coralie, and for my father. I discovered his full name at the mayor's office in the Rue Drouot. My father was Armand Patrice Belval. He died on the fourteenth of April, 1895." Patrice was right in saying that a singular light had been thrown upon the past. He had now positively established that the inscription on the tombstone related to his father and Coralie's mother, both of whom were murdered on the same day. But by whom and for what reason, in consequence of what tragedies? This was what Coralie asked him to tell her. "I cannot answer your questions yet," he replied. "But I addressed another to myself, one more easily solved; and that I did solve. This also makes us certain of an essential point. I wanted to know to whom the lodge belonged. The outside, in the Rue Raynouard, affords no clue. You have seen the wall and the door of the yard: they show nothing in particular. But the number of the property was sufficient for my purpose. I went to the local receiver and learnt that the taxes were paid by a notary in the Avenue de l'Opéra. I called on this notary, who told me . . ." He stopped for a moment and then said: "The lodge was bought twenty-one years ago by my father. Two years later my father died; and the lodge, which of course formed part of his estate, was put up for sale by the present notary's predecessor and bought by one Siméon Diodokis, a Greek subject." "It's he!" cried Coralie. "Siméon's name is Diodokis." "Well, Siméon Diodokis," Patrice continued, "was a friend of my father's, because my father appointed him the sole executor of his will and because it was Siméon Diodokis who, through the notary in question and a London solicitor, paid my school-fees and, when I attained my majority, made over to me the sum of two hundred thousand francs, the balance of my inheritance." They maintained a long silence. Many things were becoming manifest, but indistinctly, as yet, and shaded, like things seen in the evening mist. And one thing stood in sharper outline than the rest, for Patrice murmured: "Your mother and my father loved each other, Coralie." The thought united them more closely and affected them profoundly. Their love was the counterpart of another love, bruised by trials, like theirs, but still more tragic and ending in bloodshed and death.