"Stop him! stop him!" shouted Uncle Morlot. "Don't let him go. He is the one that is mad; I will tell you all about it."
"Calm yourself, my dear uncle," said Francis, starting toward the door. "I leave you in Dr. Auvray's care; he will soon cure you, I trust."
M. Morlot sprang up to intercept his nephew, but the doctor detained him.
"What a strange fatality!" cried the poor uncle. "He has not uttered a single senseless remark. If he would only rave as usual, you would soon see that I am not the one who is mad, but—"
Francis already had his hand on the door-knob, but turning suddenly, he retraced his steps as if he had forgotten something and, walking straight up to the doctor, said:
"My uncle's malady was not the only thing that brought me here."
"Ah," murmured M. Morlot, seeing a ray of hope, at last.
"You have a daughter," continued the young man.
"At last!" shouted the poor uncle. "You are a witness to the fact that he said: 'You have a daughter.'"
"Yes," replied the doctor, addressing Francis. "Will you kindly explain—"