It was half-past twelve. Fabry had not yet arrived. M. Vulfran, usually so calm, was getting impatient. Luncheon was over and he had gone into his study with Perrine; every now and again he walked to the window and listened. "The train must be late," he murmured. Perrine wanted to keep him away from the window, for there were many things going on outside in the park about which she did not wish him to know. With unusual activity, the gardeners were putting great pots of flowers on the steps and in front of the house. Flags were flying from the recreation grounds, which could be seen from the windows. At last the wheels of a carriage were heard on the drive. "There's Fabry," said M. Vulfran. His voice expressed anxiety, but pleasure at the same time. Fabry came in quickly. He also appeared to be in a somewhat excited state. He gave a look at Perrine which made her feel uneasy without knowing why. "I got your telegram," said M. Vulfran, "but it was so vague. I want to be sure. Speak out." "Shall I speak before mademoiselle?" asked Fabry, glancing at Perrine. "Yes, if it is as you say." It was the first time that Fabry had asked if he could speak before Perrine. In the state of mind in which she was suddenly thrown, this precaution only made her the more anxious. "The person whom we had lost trace of," said Fabry, without looking at Perrine, "came on to Paris. There she died. Here is a copy of the death certificate. It is in the name of Marie Doressany, widow of Edmond Vulfran Paindavoine." With trembling hands the blind man took the paper. "Shall I read it to you?" asked Fabry. "No, if you have verified the names we will attend to that later. Go on." "I not only got the certificate; I wanted to question the man whom they call Grain-of-Salt. She died in a room in his house. Then I saw all those who were present at the poor woman's funeral. There was a street singer called the Baroness and an old shoemaker called Carp. It was the miserable existence which she had been forced to live that had finally killed her. I even saw the doctor who attended her, Dr. Cendrier. He wanted her to go to the hospital, but she would not be parted from her daughter. Finally, to complete my investigations, they sent me to a woman who buys rags and bones. Her name is La Rouquerie. I could not see her until yesterday, as she had been out in the country." Fabry paused. Then for the first time he turned to Perrine and bowed respectfully. "I saw Palikare, mademoiselle," he said. "He is looking very well." Perrine had risen to her feet. For some moments she stood listening, dazed. Then her eyes filled with tears. "I then had to find out what had become of the little daughter," continued Fabry. "This ragpicker told me that she had met her in the Chantilly woods and that she was dying of hunger. It was her own donkey that she sold to the ragpicker who found her."