He went out into the road, and stopped a little girl of ten or twelve years, who was walking towards the village with a pitcher of water.
"Do you know whether the woman who lived in this house has left?" he asked. "Jeanne-Marie she was called, I think?"
The child stared up at the strange gentleman with the foreign accent:
"Jeanne-Marie that used to live here?" she said. "She is dead."
"Dead?" cried Madelon. The tears came rushing into her eyes.
"Ah! why did I not know? I would have come if I had known.
When did she die?"
"More than a month ago," the girl answered; "she died here in this house."
"And who lives here now?" inquired Graham.
"Jacques Monnier—he that works at the factory now. He is out all day; but his wife should be here."
And in fact, at the sound of the voices, the door leading into the kitchen opened, and a young woman appeared.
"Pardon," said Madelon, going forward; "we came here to inquire for Jeanne-Marie; but she—she is dead, we hear."