Maxence stared in surprise.
“Tregars!” he repeated. “It’s the first time that I hear that name.”
The usual clients of the commissary would have hesitated to recognize him, so completely had he set aside his professional stiffness, so much had his freezing reserve given way to the most encouraging kindness.
“Now, then,” he resumed, “never mind M. de Tregars: let us talk of the woman, who, you seem to think, has been the cause of M. Favoral’s ruin.”
On the table before him lay the paper in which Maxence had read in the morning the terrible article headed: “Another Financial Disaster.”
“I know nothing of that woman,” he replied; “but it must be easy to find out, since the writer of this article pretends to know.”
The commissary smiled, not having quite as much faith in newspapers as Maxence seemed to have.
“Yes, I read that,” he said.
“We might send to the office of that paper,” suggested Mlle. Lucienne.
“I have already sent, my child.”