ervants. If necessary I shall dismiss
any whom I suspect."

"No, don't do that," she said eagerly. "You mustn't. I know them all."

Was she going to defend them? Was she yielding to a scruple of conscience
at the moment when her obstinacy and duplicity were on the point of
causing her to sacrifice a set of servants whose conduct she knew to be
beyond reproach? Don Luis received the impression that the glance which
she threw at him contained an appeal for pity. But pity for whom? For the
others? Or for herself?

They were silent for a long time. Don Luis, standing a few steps away
from her, thought of the photograph, and was surprised to find in the
real woman all the beauty of the portrait, all that beauty which he had
not observed hitherto, but which now struck him as a revelation. The
golden hair shone with a brilliancy unknown to him. The mouth wore a less
happy expression, perhaps, a rather bitter expression, but one which
nevertheless retained the shape of the smile. The curve of the chin, the
grace of the neck revealed above the dip of the linen collar, the line of
the shoulders, the position of the arms, and of the hands resting on her
knees: all this was charming and very gentle and, in a manner, very
seemly and reassuring. Was it possible that this woman should be a
murderess, a poisoner?

He said:

"I forget what you told me that your Christian name was. But the name you
gave me was not the right one."

"Yes, it was," she said.

"Your name is Florence: Florence Levasseur."

She started.

"What! Who told you? Florence? How do you know?"

"Here is your photograph, with your name on it almost illegible."

"Oh!" she said, amazed at seeing the picture. "I can't believe it!
Where does it come from? Where did you get it from?" And, suddenly, "It
was the Prefect of Police who gave it to you, was it not? Yes, it was
he, I'm sure of it. I am sure that this photograph is to identify me
and that they are looking for me, for me, too. And it's you again, it's
you again--"

"Have no fear," he said. "The print only wants a few touches to alter the
face beyond recognition. I will make them. Have no fear."

She was no longer listening to him. She gazed at the photograph with all
her concentrated attention and murmured:

"I was twenty years old.... I was living in Italy. Dear me, how happy I
was on the day when it was taken! And how happy I was when I saw my
portrait!... I used to think myself pretty in those d