“And you threw yourself into the river, my dear angel. You swim like a little god.”
“And I landed where the other landed. Yes, there were the reeds all freshly broken. And I slipped in among the bushes.”
“Where to?”
“Up to the Villa Krestowsky, madame—where they both live.”
“Ah, it was from there someone came?”
There was a silence between them.
She questioned:
“Boris?”
“Someone who came from the villa and who returned there. Boris or Michael, or another. They went and returned through the reeds. But in coming they used a boat; they returned by swimming.”
Her customary agitation reasserted itself.