attention was attracted by a voluminous envelope in an unknown
handwriting, registered in Paris....

Curiosity made him open it immediately and he found in his hand a
regular sheaf of loose leaves, a long account that far exceeded the
limits of a letter. He looked at the engraved letter-head and then at
the signature. The writer was a lawyer in Paris, and Ferragut suspected
by the luxurious paper and address that he must be a celebrated
_maitre_. He even recalled having run across his name somewhere in the
newspapers.

Then and there he began reading the first page, anxious to know why
this distinguished personage had written to him. But he had scarcely
run his eyes over some of the sheets before he stopped his reading. He
had come across the name of Freya Talberg. This lawyer had been her
defender before the Council of War.

Ferragut hastened to put the letter in a safe place, and curb his
impatience. He felt that necessity for silent isolation and absolute
solitude which a reader, anxious to delve into a new book, experiences.
This bundle of papers doubtless contained for him the most interesting
of stories.

Returning to his ship, the road seemed to him far longer than at other
times. He longed to lock himself in his stateroom, away from all
curiosity as though he were about to perform some mysterious rite.

Freya was not in existence. She had disappeared from the world in the
infamous manner in which criminals disappear,--doubly condemned since
even her memory was hateful to the people; and Ferragut within a few
moments was going to resurrect her like a ghost, in the floating house
that she had visited on two occasions. He now might know the last hours
of her existence wrapped in disreputable mystery; he could violate the
will of her judges who had condemned her to lose her life and after
death to perish from every one's memory. With eager avidity he seated
himself before his cabin table, arranging the contents of the envelope
in order;--more than twelve sheets, written on both sides, and several
newspaper clippings. In these clippings he saw portraits of Freya, a
hard and blurred likeness which he could recognize only by her name
underneath. He also beheld the portrait of her defender,--an old lawyer
of fastidious aspect with white locks carefully combed, and sharp eyes.

From the very first lines, Ferragut suspected that the _maitre_ could
neither write nor speak except in the most approved literary form. Hi