Maray, second reporter of La Capitale, shook hands with Fandor.

“Are you in a good humour, dear boy?”

“So-so....”

“Ah!  Well, here is something which will cheer you up, I’m sure!...  Here’s a letter from a lady for you....  I found it in my pigeon-hole by mistake!”

Fandor smiled.

“From a lady?...  You must be mistaken!...  How do you know it is?”

“By the handwriting, the paper, and so on-I’m not mistaken-am I ever?...”  Laughing, Maray threw down on Fandor’s table a small envelope with a deep black border.

“Yes, it is a letter from a woman,” said Fandor, as he picked it up:  “from whom?...  Ah,... why yes!...”

With a hasty finger, he tore open the envelope whilst his colleague withdrew making a joking remark.

“Dear boy, I leave you to this tender missive:  I should be annoyed with myself were I to interrupt your reflections!”

Fandors friend would have been surprised, if he could have seen the gloomy expression which the perusal of this so-called love-letter produced.  Jerome had turned to the signature-Elizabeth Dollon.

“What does she want with me?” he asked himself.  “After the extraordinary affair of rue du Quatre Septembre, one must suppose that she has arrived at some conclusion regarding the possible guilt of her brother ... so long as she does not let her imagination run away with her, and, like the police, fancy that Jacques Dollon is still in the land of the living?  The position the poor thing is in is a very cruel one!”

Fandor had met Jacques Dollon’s young sister repeatedly; and, every time, he had been more and more troubled by the poor girl’s touching grief, as well as by her pathetic beauty, which had made a great impression on him....  He began to read her letter.

     "Dear Sir,

     You have been so good to me in all my troubles, you have shown me
     such true sympathy, that I do not hesitate to ask your help once
     more.

Such an extraordinary thing has happened to me which I cannot account for at all, which, nevertheless, makes me think, more than ever, that my poor brother is living, innocent, and kept prisoner, perhaps by those who compel him to accept the responsibility for all those horrible crimes you know about.

     To-day, whilst I was in Paris on business, some people, of whom I
     know nothing, I need hardly say, whom not a soul in the private
     boarding-house where I am saw, these persons entered my room!

     I found all my belongings turned upside down; my papers scattered
     over the floor, every drawer and trunk and box ransacked from top
     to bottom!

     You can guess how frightened I was....

I do not think they had come to do me any personal harm, not even to rob me, for I had left my modest jewellery on the mantelpiece and found them still there:  those who entered my room did not covet valuables.

     Then, why did they come?

     You are perhaps going to say that my imagination is playing me
     tricks!...  Nevertheless, I assure you that I try to keep calm, but
     I cannot keep control of myself, and I am terribly afraid!

     I have just said that nothing was stolen from me; I think,
     however, it right to mention one strange coincidence.

I was convinced that I had left, in a little red pocket-book, the list I spoke to you of, which had been retrieved at my brother’s house on the day of Madame de Vibray’s death.  It was, as I have told you, written in green ink by a person whose handwriting I do not know.  I can hardly tell why, but amidst all the disorders in my room I immediately searched for this list.  The little pocket-book was on the floor amongst other papers, but the list was not to be found in it.

Am I mistaken?  Have I packed it in somewhere else, or, allowing for the fact that everything had been turned upside down, has this paper slipped among other papers, which would explain why I had not come across it again?

     In spite of myself, I must confess to you that the thieves, I
     fancy, had only one aim in view when they entered my room, and that
     was to get hold of this list.

     What is your opinion?

I feel that perhaps I am about to show myself both inconsiderate and injudicious, but you know how miserable I am, and you will understand how the position I am in gives me grounds for being distracted.  I am bent on talking this over with you, on knowing what you think of it.  Perhaps even, knowing how clever you are, you might be able to find something, an indication, some detail, in my room?  I have not touched anything.

     I shall stay indoors all to-morrow in the hope of seeing you; do
     come if you possibly can.  It seems to me that I am forsaken by
     everyone, and I trust only you...."

Jerome Fandor read and reread this letter, which had been written with a trembling hand.

“Poor little soul!” he murmured.  “Here is something more to add to her troubles!  It is really terrible!  It seems to me as if we should never come to the end of it; and I ask myself, whether the police will ever find the key to all these mysteries!...

“Did someone really break into Elizabeth Dollon’s room to steal this paper?  It is rather improbable.  Judging from what she told me, there is nothing compromising in it.  But then, why this search?...  She is right so far:  if the intruders had been merely thieves, they would have carried off her jewellery!...  Then it is for that paper they came?  Besides, ordinary burglars would have had considerable difficulty in getting into her room, where she is remarkably well guarded, by the very fact of there being other boarders in the house....

“No, the very audacity of this attempted theft seems to prove, that it is connected with the other affairs which have brought the name of Jacques Dollon into such prominence!

“I see in this the same extraordinary audacity, the same certainty of escape, the same long and careful preparation, for it is a by no means convenient place for a burglary in open day:  comings and goings are perpetual, and the guilty persons ran a hundred risks of being caught....”

Fandor interrupted his reflections to read Elizabeth’s letter once more.

“She is dying of fright!  That is evident!...  In any case she calls to me for help.  Her letter was posted yesterday evening....  I will go and see her-and at once....  Who knows but I might find some clue which would put me on the right track?”

Jerome Fandor did not feel very hopeful.

After having gone carefully over every point connected with, and pertaining to, the affair of rue du Quatre Septembre, he had almost come to the conclusion, optimistic as he was regarding the police, that chance alone would bring about the arrest of the guilty parties.

“To lay these criminals by the heels,” he had frankly declared, “requires the aid of very favourable circumstances, and without them, neither I nor the police will get at the truth of it all.”

Fandor made a definite distinction between the opinion of the police and his own, because two different theories now obtained with regard to the two affairs:  that of the attack on the Princess Sonia Danidoff, and that of the robbery of rue du Quatre Septembre, where the imprints of Jacques Dollon’s fingers had been found.

The police and Fandor coupled Monsieur Havard with Monsieur Bertillon under this definition; the police held it for certain that Jacques Dollon was alive, very much alive, and the probabilities were great that he was guilty of the different crimes attributed to him.

In an interview granted to a press rival of La Capitale Monsieur Bertillon had stated: 

“We base our assertion that Dollon is alive, and consequently guilty, on material facts:  we have found his signature attached to each of the crimes, and it is a signature which cannot be imitated by anyone....”

For his part, Fandor held it as certain that Jacques was dead.

“I maintain that, since fifty persons have seen Jacques Dollon dead, it is infinitely more likely that he is dead than that he is alive!  The imprints of his fingers, his hand, are equally visible, it is true, and seem to prove that he is alive.  But the conclusive nature of this test is nullified by the fact that, before the discovery of these imprints, before these imprints had been made, Jacques Dollon was dead!”

And in his articles in La Capitale, Jerome Fandor, with a persistency which finished by disconcerting even the most convinced partisans of the police contention, continued to maintain that Jacques Dollon was dead, dead as dead, and, to use his own expression, “as dead as it was possible for anyone to be dead!”

Jerome Fandor had just rung the bell at the garden gate of Madame Bourrat’s private boarding-house in Auteuil.

Jules hastened to answer this ring, and was met by the question: 

“Is Mademoiselle Elizabeth Dollon at home?”

“No, monsieur.  She went out not an hour ago!”

“And you are certain she has not returned?”

“Absolutely, monsieur....  There are two visitors waiting for her already.”

“She will be in soon, then?”

“Certainly, monsieur:  she will not be long....”

Fandor looked at his watch.

“A quarter past ten!...  Very well, I will wait for her.”

“If monsieur will kindly follow me?”

Fandor was shown into the drawing-room.  He had advanced only a step or two when he was greeted with: 

“Why!  Monsieur Fandor!”

“I am delighted to see you!” cried Fandor, shaking hands with Monsieur Barbey and Monsieur Nanteuil.  Both gave him a pleasant smile of welcome.

“You have come to see Mademoiselle Dollon, I suppose?”

“Yes.  We have come to assure her that we will do all in our power to help her out of her terrible difficulties.  She wrote to us a few days ago to ask if we would act as intermediaries regarding the sale of some of her unfortunate brother’s productions, also to see if we could get her a situation in some dressmaking establishment....  We have come to assure her of our entire sympathy.”

“That is most kind of you!  They told you, did they not, that she had gone out?  I think she will not be absent long, for I have an appointment with her.  But, if you will allow me, I will go to the office and ask if they have the least idea of which way she has gone, for I have little time to spare, and if we could go to meet her, it would save, at least, a few minutes....”

Jerome Fandor rose and went towards one of the drawing-room doors.

“You are making a mistake,” said Monsieur Nanteuil, “the office is this way,” and he pointed to another door.

“Bah!  All roads lead to Rome!” With that, Fandor went out by the door he had approached first....

“They are nice fellows,” said Fandor to himself.  “If Elizabeth Dollon is really not in!... but...  Is she really not in the house?  I am by no means sure....  If she feels timid at the idea of seeing the bankers-their visit may have made her nervous, considering the state she is in ... she might have sent to say she was not at home in order to have time to add some finishing touches to her toilette.”

Fandor, who knew the house, mounted the little staircase leading to the first floor.  Elizabeth’s room was on this floor.  Before her door he stopped and sniffed.

“Queer smell!” he murmured.  “It smells like gas!”

He knocked boldly, calling: 

“Mademoiselle Elizabeth!  It is I, Fandor!”

The smell of gas became more pronounced as he waited.

A horrible idea, an agonising fear, flashed through his mind.

He knocked as hard as he could on the door.

“Mademoiselle Elizabeth!  Mademoiselle!”

No answer.

He called down the stairs: 

“Waiter!...  Porter!”

But apparently the one and only manservant the house boasted was occupied elsewhere, for no one answered.

Fandor returned to the door of Elizabeth’s room, knelt down and tried to look through the keyhole.  The inside key was there, which seemed to confirm his agonising fear.

“She has not gone out then?”

He took a deep breath.

“What a horrible smell of gas!”

This time he did not hesitate.  He rose, stepped back, sprang forward, and with a vigorous push from the shoulder, he drove the door off its hinges.

“My God!” he shouted.

In the centre of the room, Fandor had just seen Elizabeth Dollon lying unconscious.  A tube, detached from a portable gas stove, was between her tightly closed lips!  The tap was turned full on.  He flung himself on his knees near the poor girl, pulled away the deadly tube, and put his ear to her heart.

What joy, what happiness, he felt when he heard, very feeble but quite unmistakable beatings of Elizabeth’s heart!

“She lives!” What unspeakable relief Jerome Fandor felt!  What thankfulness!

The noise he had made breaking the door off its hinges brought the whole household running to the spot.  As the manservant, followed by Madame Bourrat, followed in turn by Monsieur Barbey and Nanteuil, appeared in the doorway uttering cries of terror, Jerome called out: 

“No one is to come in!...  It is an accident!”

Then lifting Elizabeth in his strong arms, he carried her out of the room.

“What she needs is air!”

He hurried downstairs and out into the garden with his precious burden, followed by the terrified witnesses of the scene.

“You have saved her life, monsieur!” cried Madame Bourrat in a tragic voice.  She groaned.  “Oh, what a scandal!”

“Yes, I have saved her,” replied Fandor as, panting with his exertions, he laid Elizabeth Dollon flat on a garden seat....  “But from whom?...  It is certainly not attempted suicide!  There is some mystery behind this business:  it’s a regular theatrical performance arranged simply for effect, and to mislead us,” declared Fandor.  Then, turning to the bankers, he said courteously but with an air of command: 

“Please lay information with the superintendent of police at once ... the nearest police station, you understand!”

“Madame,” he said, addressing the overwhelmed Madame Bourrat, “you will be good enough to look after Mademoiselle Dollon, will you not?...  Take every care of her.  There is not much to be done, however!  I have seen many cases of commencing asphyxia:  she will regain consciousness now, in a few minutes.”

Then, looking at the manservant, he said in a sharp tone: 

“Come with me!  You will mount guard at the door of Mademoiselle Elizabeth’s room, whilst I try to discover some clues, before the police arrive on the scene.”

To tell the truth, our young journalist felt embarrassed at the idea that Elizabeth Dollon was about to regain consciousness, and that he would have to submit to being thanked by her, when she knew who had saved her.

Accompanied by the manservant, he went quickly upstairs and into Elizabeth’s room.

“You must not enter Mademoiselle Dollon’s room on any account!” said Fandor sternly.  “It is quite enough that I should run the risk of effacing the, probably very slight, clues which the delinquents have left behind them....”

“But, monsieur, if the young lady put the tubing between her lips, it must have been because she wished to destroy herself!”

“On the face of it you are right, my good fellow.  But, when one is right, one is often wrong!”

Without more ado, Fandor started on a minute inspection of the room.  Elizabeth had but stated the truth when she wrote that it had been thoroughly ransacked.  Only her toilet things had been spared; but some books had been taken from their shelves and thrown about the floor, their pages crumpled and spoilt.  He noticed the emptied trunk:  its contents-copy books, letters, pieces of music-had been roughly dealt with.  On the mantelpiece, in full view, lay Elizabeth’s jewellery-some rings and brooches, a small gold watch, a purse.

“A very queer affair,” murmured Fandor, who was kneeling in the middle of the room, rummaging, searching, and not finding any clue.  He rose, carefully examined all the woodwork, but found nothing incriminating.  He examined the lock of the unhinged door, which had subsided on the floor.  The lock was intact, the bolt moved freely:  the screws only of the staple had given way.

“That,” thought Fandor, “is probably owing to the force of my thrust!”

The window fastening was intact:  the window closed.

“If the robbers,” reflected Fandor, “got into a closed room, they must have used false keys.”

Having examined the means of access to the room, Fandor started on a still more minute examination of the interior.  He scrutinised the furniture and the slight powdering of dust on each article:  in vain!...  Then the washstand had its turn:  nothing!...  He scrutinised the soap.

“Ah!  This is interesting!” he cried.  The manservant had made himself scarce; and Fandor, unobserved, could wrap up the piece of soap in his handkerchief and hide it in the lowest drawer of the chest of drawers, under a pile of linen.  He was whistling now.

“That bit of soap is interesting-very!” he cried.  “Let the police come!  I am not afraid of their blundering!...  Now to see how Elizabeth is getting on!”

When he reached her side, he found she had recovered full consciousness, and was preparing to answer the questions of a police superintendent, who, summoned by the bankers, had hastened to the scene of action.  He was a stout, apoplectic man, very full of his own importance.

“Come now, mademoiselle, tell us just how things happened from beginning to end!  We ask nothing better than to believe you, but do not conceal any detail-not the slightest....”

Poor Elizabeth Dollon, when she heard this speech, stared at the pompous police official, astonished.  What had she to conceal?  What had she to gain by lying?  What did he think, this fat policeman, who took it upon himself to issue orders, when he should rather have tried to comfort her!  Nevertheless, she at once began telling him all that she knew with regard to the affair.  She told him of her letter to Fandor:  that her room had been visited the evening before:  by whom she did not know ... that she had not said a word about it to anyone, fearing vengeance would fall on her, frightened, not understanding what it all meant....

Then she came to what the police dignitary called “her suicide.”  As she finished her recital with a reference to her rescue by Fandor, she looked at the young journalist.  It was a look of great gratitude and a kind of ardent tenderness, with a touch of fear in it.

“Strange, very strange!” pronounced the superintendent of police, who had been taking notes with an air of great gravity.  “So very strange, mademoiselle, that it is very difficult to credit your statements!... very difficult indeed!...”

Whilst he was speaking, Fandor was saying to himself: 

“Decidedly, it is that!...  Just what I was thinking!  It is quite clear, clear as the sun in the sky, evident, indisputable!” And he refused, very politely of course-for one has to respect the authorities-to accompany the superintendent, who, in his turn, went upstairs to Elizabeth’s room, in order to carry out the necessary legal verification....