long dead is at his side—a girl with whom he was violently in love, but who vanished on the day he killed his wife."
M. Sariac paused to watch the effect of his words, then reassured, went on. "The crime was committed in an access of insanity brought on by the hopelessness of the love affair. M. de Reisenach, as he is called, fled to Paris, but was overtaken by couriers, who found him raving. To avoid a scandal it was given out that he was dead and, with the connivance of the authorities here, it was arranged that he should be installed in a private house. The house is, of course, nothing more than a private asylum, and for many years its inmate has persuaded himself that he is living in clandestine happiness with the woman he loved. Naturally he sees almost nobody from the outside world, and whoever penetrates into the house is obliged to humour him in a dozen subtle ways. . . . You see the difficulties of the post?"
Paul was fascinated by them. "What makes you think I might qualify?"
"Ah ça! How does one know such things? There's a quiet intensity in your manner that makes me feel you might appeal to the old man—if you care to undertake the task. Of course he may turn you down at sight. There's no accounting for his judgment."
"Has he nobody to play for him?"
M. Sariac's face became grave. "For the last twenty years my wife went regularly to play for him—my wife died only last week."
Paul filled the hiatus with an expression of sympathy, and M. Sariac descanted upon the qualities of the unfortunate lady.
"If you are interested," he finally said, "I'll take you to M. de Reisenach's secretary."
Paul felt that the offer lay peculiarly in his province.
"There is a further warning," concluded the teacher.
