She watched him subdividing the last succulent pieces of lobster with loving regret.
“When did you locate your brother again?” be asked.
“Only a few months ago. The Norths had tried from time to time, without any luck. Last winter, I thought I’d try just once more, on my own. I had an advertisement translated into French, and sent it to all the Paris newspapers. Of course, for all I knew, he might have been anywhere else in France, if he was alive at all. But just by a miracle, he saw it. We exchanged letters and snapshots. He’d thought I was probably dead, too. And then, when I won that prize on the radio, it seemed as if everything was set for a real Hollywood ending.”
“I can see why that story would get a play in the papers,” said the Saint thoughtfully. “And the correspondents of the French news agencies would naturally pick it up and send it back here.”
“They did. Charles’s last letter said he was quite embarrassed about the publicity he was getting.”
“So after that, anyone with any interest in the Rosepierre family, whether they read advertisements or not, would know a good deal about both of you.”
“I suppose so.”
Simon shamelessly used a piece of bread to mop up the last delectable traces of the ambrosial sauce.
“Are you reasonably sure that this Charles Rosepierre was your brother?”
Valerie stared at him.