“Is it that this is the Mademoiselle Euanstead?”
Cynthia squinted against the sun. She was too weary to think. Was someone to meet her here?
“Yes, I’m Miss Wanstead.”
“Bon! We had the letter from Madame Brewster.”
“Oh, then you are Monsieur Marge. How nice! I couldn’t discover a train for Mouleon.”
“No train,” he shook his head. “Only the tramcars. But come and meet my wife.”
Madame was a plump little dumpling in plain worn black, knitting on one of the benches beneath the trees. She beamed a silent welcome and carried her knitting with her, needles clicking without a break, into the tram which had been waiting, small town fashion, for Monsieur Marge to find his guest. For an hour, while Cynthia struggled to keep her eyes open, they rattled and banged through clouds of dust toward the tiny town of Mouleon, then out again into open country.
Sunset had passed and it was nearly dark when they reached their final stop and Cynthia stumbled up the path behind her hosts. Twice, during the simple dinner, she found herself nodding. Then at some brief remark from Madame, Monsieur Marge suggested kindly:
“My wife sees that you are very tired. I will light the candle and show you to your room.” Behind him a silly little cuckoo clock chirped nine times, as Cynthia stumbled up the bed.
Cynthia woke slowly, aware of an unusual sound. Something, someone was snoring. Surely—no, the sound couldn’t possibly be human. She lay still a moment, listening, then decided she really must investigate, and sat up against her pillows.