able man.

"You are M. Ratichon, I believe," she said in a voice that was dulcet
and adorably tremulous, like the voice of some sweet, shy young thing
in the presence of genius and power.

"Hector Ratichon," I replied calmly. "Entirely at your service,
Mademoiselle." Then I added, with gentle, encouraging kindliness,
"Mademoiselle . . . ?"

"My name is Geoffroy," she replied, "Madeleine Geoffroy."

She raised her eyes--such eyes, my dear Sir!--of a tender, luscious
grey, fringed with lashes and dewy with tears. I met her glance.
Something in my own eyes must have spoken with mute eloquence of my
distress, for she went on quickly and with a sweet smile. "And this,"
she said, pointing to her companion, "is my brother, Arthur Geoffroy."

An exclamation of joyful surprise broke from my lips, and I beamed and
smiled on M. Arthur, begged him to be seated, which he refused, and
finally I myself sat down behind my desk. I now looked with unmixed
benevolence on both my clients, and then perceived that the lady's
exquisite face bore unmistakable signs of recent sorrow.

"And now, Mademoiselle," I said, as soon as I had taken up a position
indicative of attention and of encouragement, "will you deign to tell
me how I can have the honour to serve you?"

"Monsieur," she began in a voice that trembled with emotion, "I have
come to you in the midst of the greatest distress that any human being
has ever been called upon to bear. It was by the merest accident that
I heard of you. I have been to the police; they cannot--will not--act
without I furnish them with certain information which it is not in my
power to give them. Then when I was half distraught with despair, a
kindly agent there spoke to me of you. He said that you were attached
to the police as a voluntary agent, and that they sometimes put work
in your way which did not happen to be within their own scope. He also
said that sometimes you were successful."

"Nearly always, Mademoiselle," I broke in firmly and with much
dignity. "Once more I beg of you to tell me in what way I may have the
honour to serve you."

"It is not for herself, Monsieur," here interposed M. Arthur, whilst a
blush suffused Mlle. Geoffroy's lovely face, "that my sister desires
to consult you, but for her fiance M. de Marsan, who is very ill
indeed, hovering, in fact, between life and death. He could not come
in person. The matter is one that demands the most profound secrecy."

"You may rely on