It was just the sort of letter, which in Ricardo’s view, Marthe Gobin would have written—­a long, straggling letter which never kept to the point, which exasperated them one moment by its folly and fired them to excitement the next.

It was dated from a small suburb of Geneva, on the western side of the lake, and it ran as follows: 

“The suburb is but a street close to the lake-side, and a tram runs into the city.  It is quite respectable, you understand, monsieur, with a hotel at the end of it, and really some very good houses.  But I do not wish to deceive you about the social position of myself or my husband.  Our house is on the wrong side of the street—­definitely—­yes.  It is a small house, and we do not see the water from any of the windows because of the better houses opposite.  M. Gobin, my husband, who was a clerk in one of the great banks in Geneva, broke down in health in the spring, and for the last three months has been compelled to keep indoors.  Of course, money has not been plentiful, and I could not afford a nurse.  Consequently I myself have been compelled to nurse him.  Monsieur, if you were a woman, you would know what men are when they are ill—­how fretful, how difficult.  There is not much distraction for the woman who nurses them.  So, as I am in the house most of the day, I find what amusement I can in watching the doings of my neighbours.  You will not blame me.

“A month ago the house almost directly opposite to us was taken furnished for the summer by a Mme. Rossignol.  She is a widow, but during the last fortnight a young gentleman has come several times in the afternoon to see her, and it is said in the street that he is going to marry her.  But I cannot believe it myself.  Monsieur is a young man of perhaps thirty, with smooth, black hair.  He wears a moustache, a little black moustache, and is altogether captivating.  Mme. Rossignol is five or six years older, I should think—­a tall woman, with red hair and a bold sort of coarse beauty.  I was not attracted by her.  She seemed not quite of the same world as that charming monsieur who was said to be going to marry her.  No; I was not attracted by Adele Rossignol.”

And when he had come to that point Hanaud looked up with a start.

“So the name was Adele,” he whispered.

“Yes,” said Ricardo.  “Helene Vauquier spoke the truth.”

Hanaud nodded with a queer smile upon his lips.

“Yes, there she spoke the truth.  I thought she did.”

“But she said Adele’s hair was black,” interposed Mr. Ricardo.

“Yes, there she didn’t,” said Hanaud drily, and his eyes dropped again to the paper.

“I knew her name was Adele, for often I have heard her servant calling her so, and without any ‘Madame’ in front of the name.  That is strange, is it not, to hear an elderly servant-woman calling after her mistress, ‘Adele,’ just simple ‘Adele’?  It was that which made me think monsieur and madame were not of the same world.  But I do not believe that they are going to be married.  I have an instinct about it.  Of course, one never knows with what extraordinary women the nicest men will fall in love.  So that after all these two may get married.  But if they do, I do not think they will be happy.