M. Fortunat seemed astonished. “Dash it!” said he. “She must amuse herself to good purpose to have a house like that. Is she pretty?” “That depends on taste. She’s no longer young, at any rate; but she has superb golden hair. And, oh! how white she is--as white as snow, monsieur--as white as snow! She has a fine figure as well, and a most distinguished bearing--pays cash, too, to the very last farthing.” There could no longer be any doubt. The portrait sketched by the wine-vendor fully corresponded with the description given by the hotelkeeper in the Rue de Helder. Accordingly, M. Fortunat drained his glass, and threw fifty centimes on the counter. Then, crossing the street, he boldly rang at the door of Madame d’Argeles’s house. If any one had asked him what he proposed doing and saying if he succeeded in effecting an entrance, he might have replied with perfect sincerity, “I don’t know.” The fact is, he had but one aim, one settled purpose in his mind. He was obstinately, FURIOUSLY resolved to derive some benefit, small or great, from this mysterious affair. As for the means of execution, he relied entirely on his audacity and sang-froid, convinced that they would not fail him when the decisive moment came. “First of all, I must see this lady,” he said to himself. “The first words will depend solely upon my first impressions. After that, I shall be guided by circumstances.” An old serving-man, in a quiet, tasteful livery, opened the door, whereupon M. Fortunat, in a tone of authority, asked: “Madame Lia d’Argeles?” “Madame does not receive on Friday,” was the reply. With a petulant gesture, M. Fortunat rejoined: “All the same I must speak with her to-day. It is on a matter of the greatest importance. Give her my card.” So saying, he held out a bit of pasteboard, on which, below his name, were inscribed the words: “Liquidations. Settlements effected for insolvent parties.” “Ah! that’s a different thing,” said the servant. “Will monsieur take the trouble to follow me?”