Perrine was a wonderful little girl.

"She can do a great deal more than I can," he said, shaking his gray
head.

And Mlle. Belhomme, how proud she was of her pupil! As to Fabry, he was
on the best of terms with her. He had been so closely connected with her
in the good work that had been done, for Fabry had superintended
everything.

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. Ce