turbed, she examined this rough, crumpled card, this unknown name:
"Heurteux." What could it be?

"Well, show him in."

Heurteux, business agent, coming from broad daylight into the
semi-obscurity of the room, was blinking with an uncertain air, trying
to see. She, on the other hand, saw very distinctly a stiff figure, with
iron-gray whiskers and protruding jaw, one of those hangers-on of the
law whom one meets round the law courts, born fifty years old, with a
bitter mouth, an envious air, and a morocco portfolio under the arm. He
sat down on the edge of the chair which she pointed out to him, turned
his head to make sure that the servant had gone out, then opened his
portfolio methodically to search for a paper. Seeing that he did not
speak, she began in a tone of impatience:

"I ought to warn you, sir, that my husband is absent, and that I am not
acquainted with his business."

Without any astonishment, his hand in his papers, the man answered:
"I know that _M. Jenkins_ is absent, madame"--he emphasized more
particularly the two words "M. Jenkins"--"especially as I come on his
behalf."

She looked at him frightened. "On his behalf?"

"Alas! yes, madame. The doctor's situation, as you are no doubt aware,
is one, for the moment, of very great embarrassment. Unfortunate
dealings on the Stock Exchange, the failure of a great financial
enterprise in which his money is invested, the _OEuvre de Bethleem_
which weighs heavily on him, all these reverses coming at once have
forced him to a grave resolution. He is selling his mansion, his horses,
everything that he possesses, and has given me a power of attorney for
that purpose."

He had at last found what he was looking for--one of those stamped
folded papers, interlined and riddled with references, where the
impassible law makes itself responsible for so many lies. Mme. Jenkins
was going to say: "But I was here. I would have carried out all his
wishes, all his orders--" when she suddenly understood by the coolness
of her visitor, his easy, almost insolent attitude, that she was
included in this clearing up, in the getting rid of the costly mansion
and useless riches, and that her departure would be the signal for the
sale.

She rose suddenly. The man, still seated, went on: "What I have still to
say, madame"--oh, she knew it, she could have dictated to him, what he
had still to say--"is so painful, so delicate. M. Jenkins is leaving
Paris for a long time, and in t