“There is an incomprehensible fatality in all this,” said the old gentleman in an undertone.
The young lawyer, also, looked discouraged.
“It is madness,” he said, “to try to establish M. de Boiscoran’s innocence without having first communicated with him.”
“And if you could do so to-morrow?” asked Dionysia.
“Then, madam, he might give us the key to this mystery, which we are in vain trying to solve; or, at least, he might tell us the way to find it all out. But that is not to be thought of. M. de Boiscoran is held in close confinement, and you may rest assured M. Galpin will see to it that no communication is held with his prisoner.”
“Who knows?” said the young girl.
And immediately she drew M. de Chandore aside into one of the little card-rooms adjoining the parlor, and asked him,—
“Grandpapa, am I rich?”
Never in her life had she thought of that, and she was to a certain extent utterly ignorant of the value of money.
“Yes, you are rich, my child,” replied the old gentleman.