So M. Moche turned the key in the lock and half opened the door to make sure his visitor was alone, and that no one suspicious accompanied her. Evidently there was no cause for alarm, and the old man stepped back and threw the portal wide open. “Pray come in, mademoiselle,” he said with a bow, and ushered her into the little salon. His visitor was a young woman, quietly but elegantly dressed. Twenty-four at the outside, she was a tall, fair, pretty girl; a heavy veil partly masked the brilliance of her complexion of lilies and roses; she wore mourning weeds. Moche, after a brief survey, pointed to a chair and invited her to state her business. “Sir,” began the unknown, “at present I am living in the Rue des Couronnes, but on account of my work—I am employed in the correspondence office of a factory at Aubervilliers—I am anxious, very naturally, to make my home nearer the place where I work. Well, I have been to see a flat in your house in the Rue de l’Evangile that would suit me, provided you would consent, as the concierge led me to hope you would, to make a trifling alteration.” The girl spoke simply, equally without exaggerated timidity and undue assurance. Moche looked at her with interest, preoccupied as he was; still he forced himself to attend to the conversation. Meantime, to gain time and recover his equanimity, he asked: “Whom have I the honour to address?” “True,” the young woman apologized, “I have not told you my name yet; I am called ... Elisabeth Dollon.” The girl had pronounced the name only after a momentary hesitation, a fact which did not escape M. Moche’s perspicacity. He said nothing, but cast a long, scrutinizing glance at his visitor. He saw that she was colouring. “_Mademoiselle Elisabeth Dollon_,” he repeated the name; “now it’s a curious thing, but somehow the name strikes me as not unfamiliar.” The young woman had risen, and her brows contracted; she seemed agitated and spoke with difficulty. “Forgive me, sir; but I always feel strangely moved whenever I have occasion to mention my name.” “Why, pray?” demanded M. Moche, courteously. “Why? Oh, sir! some years ago my name acquired a sad notoriety through the tragic, the lamentable deaths of the dearest of my family. First, my father was murdered under mysterious circumstances in a railway carriage; then it was my brother who disappeared, struck down by an odious criminal, who furthermore caused him to be accused, even after his death, of the commission of atrocious crimes.” These statements, succinct as they were, sufficed to reanimate M. Moche’s recollection. “I have it,” he cried, “yes, I know ... Dollon ... the Dollon case ... Jacques Dollon ... so he was your brother? Jacques Dollon, whom they called the ‘Messenger of Evil.’” The girl, greatly agitated by this reminder of a terrible past, merely nodded her head affirmatively, while great tears filled her eyes.