“Half-starved, I should say. Or starved.”
He sniffed at the stove and the room generally.
“No sign of recent cooking.”
He opened a cupboard and looked in.
“Nothing in the pantry, sonny. I guess the girl would do with a meal.”
I did not answer him. I was staring at the photographs stuck into the mirror, and saw one that was not a girl’s portrait. It was the photograph of a young French lieutenant. I crossed the room and looked at it closer, and then spoke to the little doctor in a curiously unexcited voice, as one does in moments of living drama.
“This girl is Pierre Nesle’s sister.”
“For the love of Mike!” said the little doctor, for the second time that night.
The girl heard the name of Pierre Nesle and opened her eyes wide, with a wondering look.
“Pierre Nesle? That is my brother. Do you know him?”