“‘Dead!’ I gasped, feeling myself turn white. ‘When?’
“‘Four days ago,’ said the little man, who had not yet spoken. ‘Apoplexy.’
“‘Ah, I had forgotten! My friend M. Abbott, M. Charloix.’
“I bowed, scarcely acknowledging the introduction, for my mind was a whirling turmoil of hopes and fears. ‘You say,’ I began, still much dazed, ‘that my father died four days ago. And have you been looking for me since then, Monsieur?’
“‘Yes, Monsieur, we have scoured the country and, before this fortunate meeting to-day, had almost given up hope of finding you.’
“‘But why did you take this so much trouble to find me Monsieur?’ I had asked. ‘I had not thought myself of such importance.’
“‘There were many good reasons for our search, Monsieur,’ said my big friend, a trifle stiffly, for I doubt not he was amazed at my lack of emotion, not knowing my father as I had known him. ‘In the first place, we thought you might possibly wish to know of your father’s death. Also, there are several important matters relative to his decease that we thought might interest you.’
“‘Pardon, Monsieur,’ said I. ‘I had not meant to be abrupt. As you may see, I have had a long and wearisome journey and am—what you call—fagged. I must rest, Monsieur; then I can talk.’
“‘Quite right, quite right!’ he agreed, in his hearty manner. ‘If I had had any brains instead of being a great empty-headed fool of an attorney, I should have seen to that before,’ and, linking his arm in mine, he led me in 98 spite of all protests on my part, to his great touring car and bade me enter.
“‘But, Monsieur,’ I protested, gazing despairingly down upon my torn and dusty clothing, ‘I am not fit——’