“You are Monsieur Sholmes?”
As he still remained silent, as much from confusion as from a habit of prudence, the girl asked a third time:
“Have I the honor of addressing Monsieur Sholmes?”
“What do you want?” he replied, testily, considering the incident a suspicious one.
“You must listen to me, Monsieur Sholmes, as it is a serious matter. I know that you are going to the rue Murillo.”
“What do you say?”
“I know ... I know ... rue Murillo ... number 18. Well, you must not go ... no, you must not. I assure you that you will regret it. Do not think that I have any interest in the matter. I do it because it is right ... because my conscience tells me to do it.”
Sholmes tried to get away, but she persisted:
“Oh! I beg of you, don’t neglect my advice.... Ah! if I only knew how to convince you! Look at me! Look into my eyes! They are sincere ... they speak the truth.”
She gazed at Sholmes, fearlessly but innocently, with those beautiful eyes, serious and clear, in which her very soul seemed to be reflected.