Her hair was curled and frizzed high on her forehead, and confined by narrow bands of red velvet; her back hair was rolled in an immense coil, and held by a beautiful gold comb.

She was ravishing.  Her beauty was so startling that the dazzled detective was speechless with admiration.

“Well,” he said to himself, as he remembered the noble, severe beauty of Madeleine, whom he had seen a few hours previous, “our young gentleman certainly has good taste—­very good taste—­two perfect beauties!”

While he thus reflected, perfectly bewildered, and wondering how he could begin the conversation, Mme. Gypsy eyed him with the most disdainful surprise; she was waiting for this shabby little man in a threadbare coat and greasy hat to explain his presence in her dainty parlor.

She had many creditors, and was recalling them, and wondering which one had dared send this man to wipe his dusty boots on her velvet carpets.

After scrutinizing him from head to foot with undisguised contempt, she said, haughtily: 

“What do you want?”

Anyone but Fanferlot would have been offended at her insolent manner; but he only noticed it to gain some notion of the young woman’s disposition.

“She is bad-tempered,” he thought, “and is uneducated.”

While he was speculating upon her merits, Mme. Nina impatiently tapped her little foot, and waited for an answer; finally she said: 

“Why don’t you speak?  What do you want here?”

“I am charged, my dear madame,” he answered in his softest tone, “by M. Bertomy, to give you this note.”

“From Prosper!  You know him, then?”

“I have that honor, madame; indeed, I may be so bold as to claim him as a friend.”

“Monsieur! You a friend of Prosper!” exclaimed Mme. Gypsy in a scornful tone, as if her pride were wounded.

Fanferlot did not condescend to notice this offensive exclamation.  He was ambitious, and contempt failed to irritate him.

“I said a friend of his, madame, and there are few people who would have the courage to claim friendship for him now.”

Mme. Gypsy was struck by the words and manner of Fanferlot.

“I never could guess riddles,” she said, tartly:  “will you be kind enough to explain what you mean?”

The detective slowly drew Prosper’s note from his pocket, and, with a bow, presented it to Mme. Gypsy.

“Read, madame,” he said.

She certainly anticipated no misfortune; although her sight was excellent, she stopped to fasten a tiny gold eyeglass on her nose, then carelessly opened the note.

At a glance she read its contents.

She turned very red, then very pale; she trembled as if with a nervous chill; her limbs seemed to give way, and she tottered so that Fanferlot, thinking she was about to fall, extended his arms to catch her.