Not until then did I suspect that her calm demeanor was assumed, and that some poignant grief was concealed beneath that air of tranquility. For a moment, we were silent and embarrassed. Then Daspry stepped forward, and said:
“Will you permit me to ask you a few questions?”
“Yes, yes,” she cried. “I will answer.”
“You will answer.... whatever those questions may be?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know Louis Lacombe?” he asked.
“Yes, through my husband.”
“When did you see him for the last time?”
“The evening he dined with us.”
“At that time, was there anything to lead you to believe that you would never see him again?”