“I will _not_ see him and if the old chap insists, chuck him out of the house!” Ascott had hardly uttered the words before a grave and dignified voice was heard in the anteroom adjoining the bed-chamber, and at the same moment there issued from the shadows, pushing his way into the room, someone whose identity could admit of no mistake even to the Englishman’s sleepy eyes. It was in fact M. Moche coming in, in defiance of all prohibition. Dressed, as always, in his long, black frock-coat, holding in his hand his tall hat with the dulled, dented surface, M. Moche showed dirtier and still more repulsive-looking in the broad light of day than by candlelight, but also more solemn and more majestic. The old man bowed slightly to Ascott, who sat silent and impassive on his bed. “I have to speak to you, sir, to speak to you, alone,” he announced, casting a thunderous glance at the old servant, but the latter never budged, waiting for his master’s orders. Ascott resigned himself to the inevitable: “Go, John,” he ordered, “we wish to be alone.” Hardly had the door closed behind the servant before Moche, throwing his calm and majestic manner to the winds, rushed up to the young Englishman and in a beseeching voice half choked with emotion, but nevertheless showing just a shade of menace, demanded: “Sir, where is my niece, my child? what have you done with my sister’s child?” Ascott shook in his shoes; just what he was fearing had occurred, and that at a time, at an hour in the morning, when he would have given all he possessed to be left in peace. He made a slight, nonchalant, evasive gesture, feigning he had never an inkling of the meaning of Père Moche’s question. “Your niece,” he protested, “I know nothing of what has become of her; am I her keeper?” But Moche broke in again. With rising passion the old business man shouted: “You lie, sir; you have odiously abused my trust in you, abused the friendship I felt for you. Do not try to deny your guilt; I know all. To begin with, taking advantage of a moment’s negligence on my part, you locked yourself in alone with Nini in the private room where we all three dined, and like a very satyr, a perfect monster of vice, you were dastard enough to seduce my niece, poor child!” Playing his odious comedy to perfection, the old fellow sank into a chair, and dropping his head between his hands, pretended to sob. In a piteous voice, he whined: “Poor child! poor darling Nini, so gentle, so pure, so virtuous, what a hideous awakening must this have been for her. Oh! I can picture her despair and horror. It is frightful, maddening!” Moche sprang up and again approached Ascott, who, vexed beyond measure, was gazing on the scene with a dazed expression in his haggard eyes. “What has become of her? We have spent a dreadful night, sir, I tortured with fear and anxiety, her poor mother in terrible suspense, for Nini has never returned home; where is she? you alone can say, and you must and shall.”