She held out a copy of the Journal and pointed to the line in the agony-column which mentioned Steinweg:
"Old Steinweg was a friend of my husband's," she said, "and I have no doubt that he knows a good many things."
"Dieuzy," said M. Lenormand, "bring the person who is waiting. . . . Your visit, madame, will not have been useless. I will only ask you, when this person enters, not to say a word."
The door opened. A man appeared, an old man with white whiskers meeting under his chin and a face furrowed with deep wrinkles, poorly clad and wearing the hunted look of those wretches who roam about the world in search of their daily pittance.
He stood on the threshold, blinking his eyelids, stared at M. Lenormand, seemed confused by the silence that greeted him on his entrance and turned his hat in his hands with embarrassment.
But, suddenly, he appeared stupefied, his eyes opened wide and he stammered:
"Mrs. . . . Mrs. Kesselbach!"
He had seen the young widow. And, recovering his serenity, smiling, losing his shyness, he went up to her and in a strong German accent:
"Oh, I am glad! . . . At last! . . . I thought I should never . . . I was so surprised to receive no news down there . . . no telegrams. . . . And how is our dear Rudolf Kesselbach?"
The lady staggered back, as though she had been struck in the face, and at once fell into a chair and began to sob.