"I can't tell you that," said she. "I don't know the name. I only know that--when he met her, he--I don't know her name, but I know where she lives and where he goes every day to see her--a house with a big garden and walled park on the road to Clamart. It's on the edge of the wood, not far from Fort d'Issy. The Clamart-Vanves-Issy tram runs past the wall of one side of the park. That's all I know."
Ste. Marie clasped his head with his hands.
"So near to it!" he groaned, "and yet--Ah!" He bent forward suddenly over the bed and spelled out the name of the photographer which was pencilled upon the brown cardboard mount. "There's still a chance," he said, "There's still one chance."
He became aware that the woman was watching him curiously, and nodded to her.
"It's something you don't know about," he explained. "I've got to find out who this--girl is. Perhaps the photographer can help me. I used to know him." All at once his eyes sharpened. "Tell me the simple truth about something!" said he. "If ever we have been friends, if you owe me any good office, tell me this: Do you know anything about young Arthur Benham's disappearance two months ago, or about what has become of him?"
Again the woman shook her head.
"No," said she. "Nothing at all. I hadn't even heard of it. Young Arthur Benham! I've met him once or twice. I wonder--I wonder Stewart never spoke to me about his disappearance! That's very odd."
"Yes," said Ste. Marie, absently, "it is." He gave a little sigh. "I wonder about a good many things," said he.
He glanced down upon the bed before them, and Captain Stewart lay still, save for a slight twitching of the hands. Once he moved his head restlessly from side to side and said something incoherent in a weak murmur.
"He's out of it," said Olga Nilssen. "He'll sleep now, I think. I suppose we must get rid of those people and then leave him to the care of his man. A doctor couldn't do anything for him."