“Of late, Monsieur,” she said, as she raised a pair of limpid, candid blue eyes to mine, “my position in Mr. Farewell’s house has become intolerable.  He pursues me with his attentions, and he has become insanely jealous.  He will not allow me to speak to anyone, and has even forbidden M. Cazales, his own nephew, the house.  Not that I care about that,” she added with an expressive shrug of the shoulders.

“He has forbidden M. Cazales the house,” rang like a paean in my ear.  “Not that she cares about that!  Tra la, la, la, la, la!” What I actually contrived to say with a measured and judicial air was: 

“If you deign to entrust me with the conduct of your affairs, I would at once communicate with the English lawyers in your name and suggest to them the advisability of appointing another guardian. . . .  I would suggest, for instance . . . er . . . that I . . .”

“How can you do that, Monsieur?” she broke in somewhat impatiently, “seeing that I cannot possibly tell you who these lawyers are?”

“Eh?” I queried, gasping.

“I neither know their names nor their residence in England.”

Once more I gasped.  “Will you explain?” I murmured.

“It seems, Monsieur, that while my dear mother lived she always refused to take a single sou from my father, who had so basely deserted her.  Of course, she did not know that he was making a fortune over in England, nor that he was making diligent inquiries as to her whereabouts when he felt that he was going to die.  Thus, he discovered that she had died the previous year and that I was working in the atelier of Madame Cecile, the well-known milliner.  When the English lawyers wrote to me at that address they, of course, said that they would require all my papers of identification before they paid any money over to me, and so, when Mr. Farewell went over to England, he took all my papers with him and . . .”

She burst into tears and exclaimed piteously: 

“Oh!  I have nothing now, Monsieur—­nothing to prove who I am!  Mr. Farewell took everything, even the original letter which the English lawyers wrote to me.”

“Farewell,” I urged, “can be forced by the law to give all your papers up to you.”

“Oh!  I have nothing now, Monsieur—­he threatened to destroy all my papers unless I promised to become his wife!  And I haven’t the least idea how and where to find the English lawyers.  I don’t remember either their name or their address; and if I did, how could I prove my identity to their satisfaction?  I don’t know a soul in Paris save a few irresponsible millinery apprentices and Madame Cecile, who, no doubt, is hand in glove with Mr. Farewell.  I am all alone in the world and friendless. . . .  I have come to you, Monsieur, in my distress . . . and you will help me, will you not?”

She looked more adorable in grief than she had ever done before.