"I remember the day," continued Mr. Pincornet, "because I sat down under a tree beside the road to rest, and I had an almanac in my pocket."
"You remember it by nothing else?"
"Why, by one thing more," answered the other. "I sat there, my head on my hand, perhaps thinking of nothing, perhaps thinking of France—an empty road and in the sky black clouds—when suddenly—what do you say?—clatter, crash! through the wood opposite and down a tall red bank to the road came another pupil of mine—"
"Yes?" said Cary. "Who?"
"Mr. Lewis Rand."
Something fell to the floor with a slight sound. It was the book that had rested upon Cary's crossed knee. He stooped and picked it up, then, straightening himself, looked again at the silver ribbon. "Black clouds in the sky," he said, in a curious voice, "and the seventh of September, M. de Pincornet?"
"Yes," replied the other, "by the almanac. That was two days, was it not, before your brother's death?"
"My brother, sir, was murdered upon the seventh of September."
"The seventh! The ninth! You mean the ninth! I heard it so when I recovered—"
"You heard it wrongly. It was the seventh."