"Yes, yes, but first . . . would it be possible for you to tell me . . . ?"
He interrupted himself. What was the use of asking her? If there were really a man in hiding, would she be likely to tell?
Then he made up his mind and, trying to overcome the sort of timid constraint that oppressed him at the sense of a strange presence, he said, in a very low voice, so that Dolores alone should hear:
"Listen, I have learnt something . . . which I do not understand . . . and which perplexes me greatly. You will answer me, will you not, Dolores?"
He spoke her name with great gentleness and as though he were trying to master her by the note of love and affection in his voice.
"What have you learnt?" she asked.
"The register of births at Veldenz contains three names which are those of the last descendants of the family of Malreich, which settled in Germany. . . ."
"Yes, you have told me all that. . . ."
"You remember, the first name is Raoul de Malreich, better known under his alias of Altenheim, the scoundrel, the swell hooligan, now dead . . . murdered."
"Yes."