M. Moche expressed his sympathy: “I am truly sorry, mademoiselle,” he said, “to have recalled such mournful memories to your mind; but as landlord of the house where you wish to take rooms, I was bound to know your name; but I assure you that from henceforth ...” He broke off, but presently resumed: “You spoke just now of a small alteration in the flat you wish to rent.” He had guessed from the first what it was and was quite ready to agree. “You think, mademoiselle, that the five rooms of the vacant flat are really more than you require, and you are asking me, I feel convinced of it, to divide the premises in two by having a party-wall constructed?” Elisabeth Dollon assented: “That, sir, is what the concierge led me to expect.” “Consider the matter settled,” declared M. Moche; “and accordingly, the premises being only one half as big, the rent will be proportionately less—I will ask you 400 francs. When do you wish to move in?” “As soon as possible.” “The rooms are empty; as soon as ever the partition is built, you can take possession.” Moche went into the adjoining room and returned with a form of contract he had taken from one of the pigeonholes. “Sign this paper, mademoiselle, if you please.” Elisabeth Dollon was preparing to do so when he asked another question in a tone of fatherly interest: “You are alone, eh? quite alone?” “Why, of course,” replied the girl, whose look of surprise clearly showed that she failed to understand what her prospective landlord would be at. The latter explained: “The house in the Rue de l’Evangile is let out to very desirable tenants—only respectable families.... It is not for me to judge your character, my dear young lady, but if you did happen to have a ‘friend,’ or several ‘friends,’ why, you must not let them come to see you—or not too often, at any rate.” Mademoiselle Dollon drew herself up. “Sir,” she declared, a good deal offended, “I don’t know what you take me for, but I am an honest woman—” “Well, well, I felt sure of it the moment I set eyes on you; but there, it’s as well to understand one another from the beginning ... So please sign your name there, mademoiselle”—and with his great hairy finger, M. Moche pointed out the place. This formality completed, she bade a hasty farewell to M. Moche, who escorted her politely to the door. * * * * * “Brigand, scoundrel, blackguard, thief!”—a torrent of insults, followed by a torrent of blows ... M. Moche was on the point of recrossing his threshold when he was struck full in the face and felled to the ground. As he lay there, he felt the weight of a man’s body crushing him, holding him forcibly down. But Moche, for all his years, was a wonderfully active man, and quite unexpectedly nimble. In one second he had shaken off the incubus and leapt to the other end of the room, where he stood glaring at his assailant.