“And you mean to say that you do not know where he went?”
“No,” she answered, steadily.
“Your aunt, Madame Moreau, has not been dead many months; do you suppose that she was as strangely ignorant?”
“I do not know—I cannot tell,” said Thérèse, with agitation.
“But you have an idea,” said M. Deshoulières, fixing his keen eyes upon her, and frowning unconsciously.
“From something she once let drop I fancied he was in America, but when I begged and prayed her to tell me she became so terrified at her own imprudence that I could not find out any thing more. She was in great awe of my uncle. He never mentioned poor Fabien, except once, when—”
She stopped short, tears gathered in her eyes.
“Well?” said Deshoulières, impatiently.
”—When he showed me a scrap of writing, evidently torn off a letter, and containing only two lines.”
M. Deshoulières said, “Well?” once more.