slender girl moving at a counter. The niece of Madame Mandilip, no doubt. Certainly the size of the shop
did not promise any such noble chamber behind it as Walters had painted in her diary. Still, the houses
were old, and the back might extend beyond the limits of the shop itself.
Abruptly and impatiently I ceased to temporize.
I opened the door and walked in.
The girl turned as I entered. She watched me as I came toward the counter. She did not speak. I studied
her, swiftly. An hysterical type, obviously; one of the most perfect I had ever seen. I took note of the
prominent pale blue eyes with their vague gaze and distended pupils; the long and slender neck and
slightly rounded features; the pallor and the long thin fingers. Her hands were clasped, and I could see
that these were unusually flexible-thus carrying out to the last jot the Laignel-Lavastine syndrome of the