The young man turned on him.
“You remember the deportations from Lille? The women and girls the boche snatched from their homes?—My fiancée was among them.” His voice checked at the painful memory. “Other women have been traced, returned to their relatives. She has never been heard of again.”
“My poor friend!” murmured the major, sympathetically.
Vincent stared once more, as if fascinated, at the photograph in his hand.
“It is she—in every detail! Yet——” his tone was puzzled. “No! I cannot believe it! It is some chance resemblance. This woman is obviously happy—content, at least.” He looked up, passed over the photograph. “Chassaigne, you are an analyst of the human mind. What relationship do you diagnose between those two people?”
The major took the print, scrutinized it critically.
“Friends, certainly—lovers, possibly,” was his sententious verdict.
“Then it cannot be!” cried the young man. “My fiancée was—is, I am sure of it—incapable of a faithless acquiescence in the wrong done to her.”
“Can one ever be sure about a woman?” said the major, with a gentle cynicism. “However, I agree with you that it is improbable that the person in the photograph is your lost friend. It is, as you say, a chance resemblance.”
“If I could only be certain of it!” The young man was obviously stirred to the depths. “I must make sure, Chassaigne.—I must get to know this woman—find out who she is!”