I will come over tomorrow for the money." A low exclamation from Hanaud interrupted the words.
"The signature! Quick!" Ricardo turned to the end of the letter.
"Marthe Gobin." "She speaks, then! After all she speaks!" Hanaud whispered in a voice of awe.

He ran to the door of the room, opened it suddenly, and, shutting it again, locked it.

"Quick! We cannot bring that poor woman back to life; but we may still--" He did not finish his sentence.

He took the letter unceremoniously from Ricardo's hand and seated himself at the table.

Over his shoulder Mr.Ricardo, too, read Marthe Gobin's letter.
It was just the sort of letter, which in Ricardo's view, Marthe Gobin would have written--a long, straggling letter which never kept to the point, which exasperated them one moment by its folly and fired them to excitement the next.
It was dated from a small suburb of Geneva, on the western side of the lake, and it ran as follows: "The suburb is but a street close to the lake-side, and a tram runs into the city.