“French! Nom d’un nom!” cried the battalion-commander. “Everything here!—The collection of the burglar boche officer!—Doctor! You speak German!—Ask that woman——!”
Both were suddenly arrested by the attitude of the doctor. He was staring in a fixed fascination at a small Buhl clock upon the mantelpiece. Suddenly he jumped to his feet, snatched down the clock, and gazed eagerly at the back of it.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried. “This is mine!—it comes from my house!—Look!”
He showed them an inscription on the back:
[1]“A Jules, pour marquer les heures d’un amour qui ne cessera pas quand le temps même cessera, de sa Marcelle.”
He stared at them like a lunatic.
“My wife!” he cried. “My wife!—Oh, Marcelle, Marcelle, where are you? Where are you?”
The others also had risen to their feet. A tense silence followed upon the wild cry.
The battalion-commander touched the doctor’s arm.
“Mon ami,” he said gently, “—can we help you——?”