“My poor husband was a naval man,” sighed the dame du comptoir.
“A pilot, no doubt,” thought Theodore.
Theodore’s manner, which was even more flattering than his words, had made a favourable impression, and the lady was disposed to be confidential. She glanced at the clock, and was glad to see that it was only twenty minutes past twelve. There was time for a little further conversation with this handsome, well-bred Englishman, before the habitués of the “Belle Alliance” came trooping in for the half-past twelve o’clock table d’hôte. Already the atmosphere was odorous with fried sole and ragout de mouton.
“The gentleman of whom I am in quest is reported to have died on the Island,” he continued; “but this is very likely to have been a false report, and it is quite possible that Captain Strangway may still——”
“Captain Strangway,” echoed the woman, with an agitated air.
“Yes, I see you know all about him. You can help me to find him.”
“Know him!” cried the woman. “I should think I did know him, to my bitter cost. Captain Strangway was my husband.”
“Good Heavens!”
“He was my husband. The people will be here in a few minutes. If monsieur will do me the honour to step into my sitting-room, we can talk without interruption.”