"The first train for three days is about to arrive," said the little notary. "You see, this is a very small town, messieurs. The arrival of a train is an event."
Again we fell silent. Mr. Royce got out his purse and paid the fee. We had come to an impasse—a closed way, we could go no farther. I could see that the notary was a-hungered for his roll and coffee. With a sigh, I arose to go. The notary stepped to the door and looked up the street.
"Ah," he said, "the train has arrived, but it seems there were not many passengers. Here is one, though, who has finished a long journey."
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. He is just home from America and seems very ill, poor fellow."
"And he lives here?"