"No, but Monsieur Sabran knows."
"The painter? I shall go to him directly."
"We have been to his house already, but he has not been home since this morning."
"That is bad," murmured Fanfaro. "Do you know the lady's name?"
"No, but I found this note in her pocket. If it is addressed to the young girl, then her name is Jane," said Mamma Caraman, handing Fanfaro an elegant little note.
"Dear Mademoiselle Jane," Fanfaro read, and, penetrated by a recollection, he repeated aloud:
"Jane—Mademoiselle Jane—if it is—but no—it can't be possible—"
A loud cry from the invalid's couch made him pause. Anselmo had gotten up, and, gazing at Fanfaro, stammeringly repeated:
"Jane—my Jane."