Mastering my not unnatural anxiety, I opened the door a little farther and slipped out into the passage, all my instincts of chivalry towards beauty in distress aroused by those piteous cries.  Forgetful of every possible danger and of all prudence, I had already darted down the corridor, determined to do my duty as a gentleman as soon as I had ascertained whence had come those cries of anguish, when I heard the frou-frou of skirts and a rapid patter of small feet down the stairs.  The next moment a radiant vision, all white muslin, fair curls and the scent of violets, descended on me from above, a soft hand closed over mine and drew me, unresisting, back into the room from whence I had just come.

Bewildered, I gazed on the winsome apparition before me, and beheld a young girl, slender as a lily, dressed in a soft, clinging gown which made her appear more slender still, her fair hair arranged in a tangle of unruly curls round the dainty oval of her face.

She was exquisite, Sir!  And the slenderness of her!  You cannot imagine it!  She looked like a young sapling bending to the gale.  But what cut me to the heart was the look of terror and of misery in her face.  She clasped her hands together and the tears gathered in her eyes.

“Go, Sir, go at once!” she murmured under her breath, speaking very rapidly.  “Do not waste a minute, I beg of you!  As you value your life, go before it is too late!”

“But, Mademoiselle,” I stammered; for indeed her words and appearance had roused all my worst fears, but also all my instincts of the sleuth-hound scenting his quarry.

“Don’t argue, I beg of you,” continued the lovely creature, who indeed seemed the prey of overwhelming emotions—­fear, horror, pity.  “When he comes back do not let him find you here.  I’ll explain, I’ll know what to say, only I entreat you—­go!”

Sir, I have many faults, but cowardice does not happen to be one of them, and the more the angel pleaded the more determined was I to see this business through.  I was, of course, quite convinced by now that I was on the track of M. Aristide Fournier and the English files, and I was not going to let five thousand francs and the gratitude of the Minister of Police slip through my fingers so easily.

“Mademoiselle,” I rejoined as calmly as I could, “let me assure you that though your anxiety for me is like manna to a starving man, I have no fears for my own safety.  I have come here in the capacity of a humble interpreter; I certainly am not worth putting out of the way.  Moreover, I have been paid for my services, and these I will render to my employer to the best of my capabilities.”

“Ah, but you don’t know,” she retorted, not departing one jot from her attitude of terror and of entreaty, “you don’t understand.  This house, Monsieur,” she added in a hoarse whisper, “is nothing but a den of criminals wherein no honest man or woman is safe.”

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” I riposted as lightly and as gallantly as I could, “I see before me the living proof that angels, at any rate, dwell therein.”