He walked along quietly for some time, trying to connect the broken chain of his deductions.
“How in the deuce,” he abruptly asked, “did this Lagors, who is devoted to gay society, come to choose a lonely country house to live in?”
“I suppose it was because M. Fauvel’s villa is only fifteen minutes’ ride from here, on the Seine.”
“That accounts for his staying here in the summer; but in winter?”
“Oh, in winter he has a room at the Hotel du Louvre, and all the year round keeps an apartment in Paris.”
This did not enlighten M. Verduret much; he hurried his pace.
“I hope our driver has not gone. We cannot take the train which is about to start, because Raoul would see us at the station.”
Although it was more than an hour since M. Verduret and Prosper left the hack at the branch road, they found it waiting for them in front of the tavern.
The driver could not resist the desire to change his five-franc piece; he had ordered dinner, and, finding his wine very good, was calling for more, when he looked up and saw his employers.
“Well, you are in a strange state!” he exclaimed.