She had disappeared from the world in the infamous manner in which criminals disappear,--doubly condemned since even her memory was hateful to the people; and Ferragut within a few moments was going to resurrect her like a ghost, in the floating house that she had visited on two occasions.

He now might know the last hours of her existence wrapped in disreputable mystery; he could violate the will of her judges who had condemned her to lose her life and after death to perish from every one's memory.

With eager avidity he seated himself before his cabin table, arranging the contents of the envelope in order;--more than twelve sheets, written on both sides, and several newspaper clippings.

In these clippings he saw portraits of Freya, a hard and blurred likeness which he could recognize only by her name underneath.

He also beheld the portrait of her defender,--an old lawyer of fastidious aspect with white locks carefully combed, and sharp eyes.
From the very first lines, Ferragut suspected that the _maitre_ could neither write nor speak except in the most approved literary form.