"Pardon," I shouted, "you are mademoiselle Girard!"
She sobbed.
"What have I done?"
"You have done a great and generous thing! I am humbled before you. I bless you. I don't know how I could have been such a dolt as not to guess!"
"Oh, how I wish you had guessed! You have been so kind to me, I longed for you to guess! And now I have betrayed a trust. I have been a bad journalist."
"You have been a good friend. Courage! No one will ever hear what has happened. And, anyhow, it is all the same to the paper whether the prize is paid to me, or to somebody else."
"Yes," she admitted. "That is true. Oh, when that man turned round and looked at me, I thought your chance had gone! I made sure it was all over! Well"—she forced a smile—"it is no use my being sorry, is it? Mademoiselle Girard is 'found'!"
"But you must not be sorry," I said. "Come, a disagreeable job is finished! And you have the additional satisfaction of knowing the money goes to a fellow you don't altogether dislike. What do I have to do about it, hein?"
"You must telegraph to La Voix at once that you have identified me. Then, in the morning you should go to the office. I can depend upon you, can't I? You will never give me away to a living soul?"
"Word of honour!" I vowed. "What do you take me for? Do tell me you don't regret! There's a dear. Tell me you don't regret."