never before heard either name, monsieur," he answered.

We sat silent a moment, in despair. Was our trip to Etretat to be of
no avail? Where was my premonition, now? If we had lost the trail thus
early in the chase, what hope was there that we should ever run down
the quarry? And how explain the fact that no record had been made of
Frances Holladay's birth? Why should her parents have wished to
conceal it? Would they not naturally have been anxious to see that it
was properly recorded?

An hour had passed; the shops were opening, and a bustle of life
reached us through the open door. People began to pass by twos and
threes.

"The first train for three days is about to arrive," said the little
notary. "You see, this is a very small town, messieurs. The arrival
of a train is an event."

Again we fell silent. Mr. Royce got out his purse and paid the fee. We
had come to an _impasse_--a closed way, we could go no farther. I
could see that the notary was a-hungered for his roll and coffee. With
a sigh, I arose to go. The notary stepped to the door and looked up
the street.

"Ah," he said, "the train has arrived, but it seems there were not
many passengers. Here is one, though, who has finished a long
journey."

He nodded to someone who approached slowly, it seemed. He was before
the door--he passed on--it was Martigny!

"That is the man!" I cried to Mr. Royce. "That is Martigny! Ask who he
really is."

He understood on the instant, and caught the notary's arm.

"Monsieur Fingret, who is that man?"

The notary glanced at him, surprised by his vehemence.

"That," he said, "is Victor Fajolle. He is just home from America and
seems very ill, poor fellow."

"And he lives here?"

"Oh, surely; on the cliffs just above the town--the first house--you
cannot miss it--buried in a grove of trees. He married the daughter of
Madame Alix some years ago--he was from Paris."

"And his wife is living?"

"Oh, surely, she is living; she herself returned from America but
three weeks ago, together with her mother and sister. The sister, they
say, is--well----" and he finished with a significant gesture toward
his head.

I saw my companion's face turn white--I steadied myself with an
effort. I knew that, at last, the veil was to be lifted.

"And they are at home now?"

"I believe so," said the notary, eying him with more and more
astonishment. "They have been keeping close at home since their
return--they will permit no