"I am very serious indeed," she replied. "The girl's name is Lucie
Renault."

For the moment he seemed perplexed. Then his eyebrows were slowly
raised.

"Lucie Renault," he repeated. "What do you know about her?"

"Only that she is a poor child who has suffered at your hands and who
is dying in a private hospital," Madame Christophor answered. "She has
been taken there out of charity. She has no friends, she is dying
alone. Come with me. I will take you to her. You shall save her at
least from that terror."

It was the aim of the man with whom she spoke to be considered modern.
A perfect and invincible selfishness had enabled him to reach the
topmost heights of callousness, and to remain there without
affectation.

"If the little girl is dying," he said, "I am sorry, for she was pretty
and companionable, although I have lost sight of her lately. But as to
my going out to see her, why, that is absurd. I hate illness of all
sorts."

The woman looked at him steadfastly, looked at him as though she had
come into contact with some strange creature.

"Do you understand what it is that I am saying?" she demanded. "This
girl was once your little friend, is it not so? It was for your sake