“It was you, wasn’t it, who did all the mischief, who acted as go-between? It was you who took him the photograph? You admit it, don’t you? And, when you said that my father was in his room, two days ago, you knew that it was not true, did you not, because you yourself had helped him to leave it—?”
She made no reply. He asked:
“Why did you do it? They offered you money, I suppose—to buy ribbons with a frock—?”
He uncrossed Charlotte’s arms and lifted up her head. He saw a poor little face all streaked with tears, the attractive, disquieting, mobile face of one of those little girls who seem marked out for temptation and weakness.
“Come,” said Beautrelet, “it’s over, we’ll say no more about it. I will not even ask you how it happened. Only you must tell me everything that can be of use to me.—Did you catch anything—any remark made by those men? How did they carry him off?”
She replied at once:
“By motor car. I heard them talking about it—”
“And what road did they take?”
“Ah, I don’t know that!”
“Didn’t they say anything before you—something that might help us?”