"It was wrong of me, mademoiselle, very wrong to write that article in such a way without warning you beforehand. Alas! You must not cherish illusions, illusions which this unfortunate article has given rise to, illusions I cannot believe in myself. I speak with all the sincerity of which I am capable, with the keenest desire to be of service to you: I dare not let you buoy yourself up with false hopes.... I assure you then, that from what I have been able to learn, to see, to know, I am convinced that your unfortunate brother is no more!... If there have been moments when I have doubted this, I am now morally certain that he is dead. Take courage, mademoiselle! Try, try to forget—to—to ..."
Fandor was trembling with emotion: he could not continue. Elizabeth bent her head, her eyes full of tears. She could not speak. She was overcome by this cruel dashing to the ground of her hopes. Never, never, to see her brother again!
An agonising silence reigned.
Fandor was profoundly troubled by this mute grief. He sought in vain for some word of comfort, of encouragement.
Elizabeth rose to go. The poor girl realised that nothing could be gained by prolonging the interview. Her one need now was to be alone, for then she could weep.
Fandor was about to accompany her to the door, when a boy entered:
"Monsieur Fandor, there's a man wishes to speak to you!"
"Say I am not here," replied our journalist: he had no wish to see strangers just then.
"But Monsieur Fandor, he says he is the keeper of the landing stage of the passenger boat service, and he comes with reference to the Dollon affair!"
Both Elizabeth Dollon and Jérôme Fandor started. She was trembling. Our journalist said at once: