"Yes, poor soul. But life was very expensive since the war. I refused several good things. But always des histoires. And so little money. You see, one must be sensible. There is one's old age. It is necessary to be provident, hein?"
"Assuredly." She had a little accent—very familiar. At first he could not place it. Then it came to him—Vienna before the war, that capital of incredible follies.
"Yes, yes, I wrote. I was very kind, very sensible. I said, 'Je ne suis pas femme à supporter de gros ennuis.' Cela se comprend, n'est-ce pas?"
That was readily understood. The 'plane dived sickly into a sudden pocket, the propeller whirring helplessly in the void, then steadied and began to nose up the opposite spiral.
"I saw it in the papers—yes. Poor boy! Why should anybody have shot him?"
"Mademoiselle, it is for that I have come to you. My brother, whom I dearly love, is accused of the murder. He may be hanged."
"Brr!"
"For a murder he did not commit."
"Mon pauvre enfant—"
"Mademoiselle, I implore you to be serious. My brother is accused, and will be standing his trial—"