“Grégoire? A man’s name?” muttered the old man, almost with a groan.
“Yes, a man’s name. Look, I have the letter on me. She tells me that she is leading a very dangerous life, that she distrusts the man with whom her fortunes are bound up and that she would like to ask my advice.”
“Then . . . then you went?”
“Yes, I was there this morning, while you were ringing up here. Unfortunately . . .”
“Well?”
“I arrived too late. Grégoire, or rather Mme. Mosgranem, was dead. She had been strangled.”
“So you know nothing more than that?” asked Siméon, who seemed unable to get his words out.
“Nothing more about what?”
“About the man whom she mentioned.”
“Yes, I do, for she told me his name in the letter. He’s a Greek, who calls himself Siméon Diodokis. She even gave me a description of him. I haven’t read it very carefully.”