"She is not going to die!" he cried. "No, no, doctor. God must hear my
prayers for her. I have never ceased to lift up my voice to Him in my
heart since I found her on the shingle. She will not die!"

"I am not so sure," I said; "but in any case we should write to her
friends. Has she written to any one since she came here?"

"Not to a soul," he answered, eagerly. "She told me she has no friends
nearer than Australia. That is a great way off."

"And has she had no letters?" I asked.

"Not one," he replied. "She has neither written nor received a single
letter."

"But how did you come across her?" I inquired. "She did not fall from
the skies, I suppose. How was it she came to live in this
out-of-the-world place with you?"

Tardif smoked his imaginary pipe with great perseverance for some
minutes, his face overcast with thought. But presently it cleared, and
he turned to me with a frank smile.

"I'll tell you all about it, Dr. Martin," he said. "You know the
Seigneur was in London last autumn, and there was a little difficulty in
the Court of Chefs Plaids here, about an ordonnance we could not agree
over, and I went across to London to see the Seigneur for myself. It was
in coming back I met with Mam'zelle Ollivier. I was paying my fare at
Waterloo station--the omnibus-fare, I mean--and I was turning away, when