“‘Sir, be warned. They’re going away. Take care. To-morrow evening the 1800 bags will be on their way out of the country.
A Friend of France.’”
“And to-morrow is the fourteenth of April,” said Patrice, at once connecting the two trains of thought in his mind.
“Yes. What makes you say that?”
“Nothing. . . . Something that just occurred to me. . . .”
He was nearly telling M. Masseron all the facts associated with the fourteenth of April and all those concerning the strange personality of old Siméon. If he did not speak, it was for obscure reasons, perhaps because he wished to work out this part of the case alone, perhaps also because of a sort of shyness which prevented him from admitting M. Masseron into all the secrets of the past. He said nothing about it, therefore, and asked:
“What do you think of the letter?”
“Upon my word, I don’t know what to think. It may be a warning with something to back it, or it may be a trick to make us adopt one course of conduct rather than another. I’ll talk about it to Bournef.”
“Nothing fresh on his side?”
“No; and I don’t expect anything in particular. The alibi which he has submitted is genuine. His friends and he are so many supers. Their parts are played.”