Dora was intensely interested in the story. The passionate love and passionate jealousy were very human feelings that appealed to her womanly tenderness. She could not withhold her pity from the murderer. "Strange that, in all your Parisian experience, you never met this Monsieur Georges," she said to her husband. "Hardly, since I seldom went out in the evening; while this man was evidently a thorough Bohemian, who only began to live after midnight," answered Wyllard. He was sitting in a thoughtful attitude, his elbow on the table, his chin leaning on his hand, and that photograph of Marie Prévol lying before him. He was looking intently at it, perusing every lineament. Presently he raised his eyes, slowly, thoughtfully, from the photograph to the face of his wife. "Yes," said Heathcote, "I know what you are thinking. There _is_ a likeness. It struck me this evening when I came into this room. There is a curious likeness between the face of the living and the dead." That morning, on studying the countenance in the photograph, Heathcote had been perplexed--worried, even--by a sense of familiarity in that face of the dead. It smiled at him as a face he had known of old--a face out of the past. Yet it was only in the evening, when he came into the _salon_ at the Windsor, and Mrs. Wyllard turned towards him in the lamplight, that he knew what the likeness meant. It was not an obvious or striking likeness. The resemblance was rather in expression than in feature, but one face recalled the other. "Yes, there is a likeness," said Wyllard coldly, passing the photograph back to its owner, who rose to take leave, just as the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. "I shall look in to-morrow, and see if you are inclined for an afternoon at Saint-Germain," he said, as he shook hands with Dora. "You are very kind," she said, "but your invitation is no longer tempting. You have spoiled my interest in that sweet old place. I shall always think of it as the scene of Marie Prévol's death." "But surely that is an additional charm," said Wyllard mockingly. "If you are gifted with Mr. Heathcote's detective temper--the genius of the heaven-born police-officer--Saint-Germain will be all the more interesting to you on account of a double murder--and perhaps a suicide into the bargain; for it is not unlikely that the murderer's bones are mouldering in some gravel-pit." "You forget Drubarde's story of the travelling-cap," said Heathcote. "That was a shrewd hypothesis on your ex-police-officer's part, but it is by no means conclusive evidence," answered Wyllard. Heathcote called at the Windsor upon the following afternoon, to inquire if Mr. and Mrs. Wyllard had left for Switzerland. He was shocked to hear that Mr. Wyllard had been taken seriously ill in the night, and that there had been two medical men with him that morning. Madame was terribly distressed, the waiter told him, but she bore up admirably.