After the first words of the meeting she asked him all the particulars of what had occurred at the tower. He told her as briefly as he could. Then for the first time she learned that her grandfather and her lover had been seeking for a treasure in that lonely place in Porter Street. He told her how the old man had been firmly persuaded a vast hoard had been hidden beneath the tower before the Great Fire, and had remained there ever since. While he, Lavirotte, was away at his lodgings, looking for letters, the old man had found the top of the vault, had pierced the vault, and descended into it. Then, no doubt, the shock of finding the work of years useless had been too great for him, and he had succumbed. He related how he, being then in a very weak condition from wearing anxiety and the want of food and rest, had returned to the tower, descended into the vault, and found himself unable to reascend. Then later on came the crash, his own insensibility, and finally the rescue the afternoon before. In grief and pity she listened to him, and when he had finished she could think of nothing to say but that she hoped he would soon get strong again, and that she would do anything she could for him, and come to see him as often as they would let her. Then he went on to explain how this terrible disappointment at not finding the treasure would not only leave him almost penniless, but would prevent him doing the service he had intended for O'Donnell and Kempston. He told her he had not replied to the letter he found from Eugene at his lodgings, because he hoped that in a day or two he might be able to communicate the glorious news that the period of their affluence was at hand. Now all this was changed. The whole aspect of his career was altered, and the first thing she would have to do for him was to telegraph to Eugene, saying that all hope of succour was now at an end. It would be a cruel, a terrible, perhaps literally a fatal blow to the elder O'Donnell, but that could not now be helped. He dictated to her the telegram, and she wrote it down. He also dictated a note she was to write to Mr. Kempston. Then he said: "They tell me I shall not be long here; but how it is to be with me when I get about again I cannot say. Misfortune seems to have marked me out as one upon whom she was to try all her arts." She said tenderly, advancing her hand to his: "Don't say that, Dominique." "Forgive me, Dora, darling. I was not thinking of you. I was speaking of only the business aspect of things. We shall be as poor as ever now." "But we were never rich, and yet we were--fond of each other, and very happy." "Ay, darling, very fond of each other, and very happy, and will be always," he added, pressing the hand he had in his. "I was thinking only of you in the matter. When I had this dream of wealth upon me, I used to picture to myself what we should do when we became rich; how you should have all that art and luxury could produce."