Jack Chicot, after contemplating the dead man’s face with curious interest, fixing the well-marked features in his mind, bent down to look at the tattooed device and inscription.
There was a ship, a rose, and these words, ‘Dedicated to Saint Anne of Auray.’
The man was doubtless a native of Auray, La Chicot’s birthplace.
Jack turned to remark this to his wife. She was standing close at his elbow, livid as the corpse behind the glass, her face convulsed, big tears rolling down her cheeks.
‘Do you know him?’ asked Jack. ‘Is it any one you remember?’
‘No, no!’ she sobbed; ‘but it is too dreadful. Take me away—take me out of this place, or I shall drop down in a fit.’
He hurried her out through the crowd, pushing his way into the open air.
‘You overrated your strength of nerve,’ he said, vexed at the folly which had exposed her to such a shock. ‘You should not have a fancy for such horrid sights.’
‘I shall be better presently,’ answered La Chicot. ‘It is nothing.’
She was not better presently. She was hysterical all the rest of the day, and at night had no sooner closed her eyes than she started up from her pillow, sobbing violently, and holding her hands before her face.