Towards this spot Mrs. He passed but a cursory glance over the formal certificate that identified the Frenchman before him as one André Valade, distant cousin to the Vicomte Valade. Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. At the recollection that it was his, she seemed to fall through a thin surface, as one might fall through the crust of a lava into glowing depths. Ireton and Langley had returned from a second unsuccessful search; Marvel had come thither to bid good-night to Mrs. “I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said.
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