"What have you found out?"
"It took me a week to get in touch with Harry Thornhill, but he finally consented to see me. He's lived buried among books for the last twenty years. His wife and two children were killed in a railway collision——"
"What the devil do I care about Harry Thornhill!"
"You're a selfish young beggar, but I would have cared as little at your age. Well—a cousin of his, Maynard Thornhill, did move to Virginia some thirty-five years ago, married, and had a family, then moved on to Paris and remained there until both he and his wife died. Beyond that he could tell me nothing. They weren't on particularly cordial terms and he never looked the family up when he went over. Has Madame Zattiany ever said anything about brothers and sisters?"
"Not a word."
"Probably married and settled in Europe somewhere, or wiped out. You might ask her."
"I'll ask her no more questions."
"Been snubbing you?"
"On the contrary, she's been uncommonly decent. I got rather strung up the last time I was there and asked her so many leading questions that she'd have been justified in showing me out of the house."
"You impertinent young scamp. But manners have changed since my day. What did she tell you?"