" 'The twenty-fifth of August — Opening of the Hospital of Memory—' "
" 'The Hostel of Memory, at Neuilly,' " he said. "I've heard something about it. It's an old chateau converted into a sort of Old Soldiers' Home, endowed by the French government for disabled veterans of the Great War to end their days in in reasonably pleasant surroundings."
" 'By Monsieur Chaulage,' " she read. "Isn't he the president, or the premier, or something?"
He nodded, and a recollection struck him like a deadened blow.
"And tomorrow is the twenty-fifth of August," he said.
She stared at him with wide expressionless eyes. There was nothing definable that her eyes could have expressed. She was as nonplussed as himself. They gazed at one another in the barren communion of hopeless bewilderment, knowing that here was something that might make their blood run cold if they could understand it, and yet not knowing what to fear.
Presently she looked at the sheet again.
"What's the rest of it?" She leaned over further to peer at the spidery scrawl across the corner. " 'Remember the—' What is it, Simon? It looks like 'Rinksty.' "
"You're as good a thought reader as I am. Does it mean anything to you?"
"Nothing."