The postmaster was struck with pity, and he assisted her. She left that night.
“Accomplice!” the widow hissed in his ear the first chance she got.
About three weeks after this, when Madame Laroque asked for Le Monde, Cuerrier refused to give it to her.
“Where is it?”
“It has been lost.”
“Lost!” said the widow, derisively. “Well, I will find it.” In an hour she came back with the paper.
“There!” said she, thrusting it under the postmaster’s nose so that he could not get his pipe back to his mouth. Cuerrier looked consciously at the paragraph which she had pointed out. He had seen it before.
“Our readers will remember that the police, while attempting to arrest one Ellwell for the jewel-robbery which occurred in the city some time ago, were compelled to fire on the man in self-defence. He died last night in the arms of a female relative, who had been sent for at his request. He was known by various names—Durocher, Gillet, etc.—and the police have had much trouble with him.”
“There!” said the widow.
“Well, what of that?”