seclusion. In a second of time a group was before him and he
remembered afterward that certain figures in a twinkling assumed
familiar shapes: the wine-shop keeper, his wife, one or two other
patrons of the hotel; but in the centre--he was sure of her!--pale and
staring, stood little Simone, her big doll clasped in her arms.

Before the gentleman could ask their errand Madame Branchard, eager to
tell it, pushed forward. Bulstrode afterward, when he thought of the
scene, could always distinctly see her important red face, sleek, oily
hair, and in spite of summer heat the crocheted shawl over her cotton
gown.

"We decided at once to address to monsieur, who is so good"--(he was
growing accustomed to the formula) "to monsieur who has been so like a
father to the poor little thing. Not but that we are ready ourselves
to do all we can for her--she is so sweet, so intelligent!"

"The sweet, intelligent child" appeared, as Bulstrode's pitying gaze,
never leaving her, saw, to have shrunk overnight. In their midst she
stood of a ridiculous smallness, her big doll nearly hiding her and
over its blonde head Simone's eyes peered pathetically into, as it
were, a vague and terrifying world. Bulstrode asked shortly in the
face of the theatrical prelude:

"What is this all about? What have you come to tell me?"

"Ah, monsieur!" Madame Branchard's voice, particularly suited to
retailing the tragedies of the streets, quavered. "There has been a
_malheur_--it is too horrible--the mother!"

"Stop!" Bulstrode put out his hand. "Simone!"

The little thing dragged herself to him with a new timidity, as though
she believed him in league with the world against her.

"Come," he encouraged, "come out here on the terrace, where you have so
often played with your doll, and don't be frightened, _mon enfant_;
everything will be all right."

When he had so settled her in the smallest of chairs he went back to
the other bit of Paris street-life which had seethed in to him.

Madame Branchard, whom his manner had reduced to, for her, marvellous
quiet and ease, approached impressively and lowered her voice as deeply
as it would fall.

"Mademoiselle Lascaze, whom monsieur knows has been my tenant for
months past, is dead--dead, monsieur!"

Bulstrode echoed, "Dead?" and his first thought was: "It was not she,
then, whom I saw striving for entrance this morning. Ah, poor
creature! Drowned?"

"Monsieur then knows?"

Knows--how