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His residence was some little distance away, near the Casino, at the right we should ask for Mâitre Fingret anyone could tell us. When should messieurs be expected to return? It was impossible to say. We set off along the street, leaving the inn-keeper staring after us along the Rue Alphonse Karr, lined on both sides by houses, each with its little shop on the ground floor.

Three minutes' walk brought us to the bay, a pretty, even picturesque place, with its perpendicular cliffs and gayly-colored fishing-smacks. But we paused for only a glance at it, and turned toward the Casino at the other end. "Mâitre Fingret?" we inquired of the first passer-by, and he pointed us to a little house, half-hidden in vines.

"Oh, yes, monsieur," smiled the little man. "For a much longer time than that." Mr. Royce leaned forward toward him. He was getting back all his old power as a cross-examiner. "Monsieur Fingret," he began impressively, "I am quite certain that Hiram W. Holladay and his wife were here during the months of May, June, and July, 1876, and that while they were here a daughter was born to them.

"Monsieur Fingret," he asked, "are you acquainted with a man by the name of Pierre Bethune?" And again the notary shook his head. "Or Jasper Martigny?" "I never before heard either name, monsieur," he answered. We sat silent a moment, in despair. Was our trip to Etretat to be of no avail? Where was my premonition, now?

He nodded to someone who approached slowly, it seemed. He was before the door he passed on it was Martigny! "That is the man!" I cried to Mr. Royce. "That is Martigny! Ask who he really is." He understood on the instant, and caught the notary's arm. "Monsieur Fingret, who is that man?" The notary glanced at him, surprised by his vehemence. "That," he said, "is Victor Fajolle.