“Still, somebody has torn—”
“But the book did not leave my room last night.”
“And this morning?”
“This morning, I brought it down here myself, when M. Massiban’s arrival was announced.”
“Then—?”
“Well, I don’t understand—unless—but no.”
“What?”
“Georges—my son—this morning—Georges was playing with the book.”
She ran out headlong, accompanied by Beautrelet, Massiban and the baron. The child was not in his room. They hunted in every direction. At last, they found him playing behind the castle. But those three people seemed so excited and called him so peremptorily to account that he began to yell aloud.
Everybody ran about to right and left. The servants were questioned. It was an indescribable tumult. And Beautrelet received the awful impression that the truth was ebbing away from him, like water trickling through his fingers.