Monday....
I think I must have dreamed that Terry and Mizzi were married, for I woke up thinking of it. Even now the memory of that morning comes to me enveloped in the dream of the two of them; somehow it is all bright sunlight—the sunlight on the geraniums in the wooden boxes, the sunlight on Terry's face as I left him sleeping, and the sunlight drenching Mizzi's little office....
"Morgen," she said, as I entered, and I told her that Terry was asleep, and that I had come down to have a chat with her, if she wasn't too busy.
(I know now almost exactly what I was going to say to her, for I had planned it all very carefully. I was going to talk about Terry—to lead the conversation up to a point at which she might, if she cared, confide in me. I was going to say and do so many clever things, if I had had the chance. But I didn't have the chance.)
She said to me suddenly: "What was the train that your friend Mr. Severn travelled by?"
I told her; and then she said: "Do you think he would break the journey at all—at Innsbrück, say, or Zürich, or Basle?"
"I don't think so. He said he was going to get to England as soon as he could."
"And his train is due to arrive in Paris early this morning?"
"Yes ... I rather think so."
Then she said, very quietly: "I am sorry.... There iss bad news—an accident.... No details yet, but a bad accident—near Paris.... I heard on the telephone just now.... Will you sit down while I ring up again?"