Bérangère next day resumed her place at meals, looking a little pale and wearing a more serious face than usual. My uncle, who had not troubled about her during the last two days, kissed her absent-mindedly. We lunched without a word. Not until we had nearly ended did Noël Dorgeroux speak to his god-child: "Well, dear, are you none the worse for your fall?" "Not a bit, god-father; and I'm only sorry that I didn't see . . . what you saw up there, yesterday and the day before. Are you going there presently, god-father?" "Yes, but I'm going alone." This was said in a peremptory tone which allowed of no reply. My uncle was looking at me. I did not stir a muscle. Lunch finished in an awkward silence. As he was about to leave the room, Noël Dorgeroux turned back to me and asked: "Do you happen to have lost anything in the Yard?" "No, uncle. Why do you ask?" "Because," he answered, with a slight hesitation, "because I found this on the ground, just in front of the wall." He showed me a lens from an eye-glass. "But you know, uncle," I said, laughing, "that I don't wear spectacles or glasses of any kind." "No more do I!" Bérangère declared. "That's so, that's so," Noël Dorgeroux replied, in a thoughtful tone. "But, still, somebody has been there. And you can understand my uneasiness." In the hope of making him speak, I pursued the subject: "What are you uneasy about, uncle? At the worst, some one may have seen the pictures produced on the screen, which would not be enough, so it seems to me, to enable the secret of your discovery to be stolen. Remember that I myself, who was with you, am hardly any wiser than I was before." I felt that he did not intend to answer and that he resented my insistence. This irritated me.