She raised her eye-brows slightly. “Do you mean to say that after listening for three hours to every inhabitant of Béchamp you haven’t found that out?”
“They all call him something different. My grandmother says he had a French name: she calls him Chariot.”
“Your grandmother was never taught German: his name was the Oberst von Scharlach.” She did not remember my presence either: the two were still looking straight in each other’s eyes.
Béchamp had grown white to the lips: he was rigid with the effort to control himself.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was Scharlach who was here?” he brought out at last in a low voice.
She turned her eyes in my direction. “I was just explaining to Mr. Greer—”
“To Mr. Greer?” He looked at me too, half-angrily.
“I know the stories that are about,” she continued quietly; “and I was saying to your friend that, since we had been so happy as to be spared, it seemed useless to dwell on what has happened elsewhere.”
“Damn what happened elsewhere! I don’t yet know what happened here.”
I put a hand on his arm. Mlle. Malo was looking hard at me, but I wouldn’t let her see I knew it. “I’m going to leave you to hear the whole story now,” I said to Réchamp.