“And you really don’t know what has become of her? How extraordinary!”
“Isn’t it?”
“You mean to say you cannot trace her in any way?”
“I have no more idea than the man in the moon where she is.”
Clancey reflected.
“Did you say she was French?” he asked.
“Her husband was; she herself is Russian.”
Clancey looked at him.
“Oh, Russian, is she? Corantin, Corantin. Let me see. I seem to remember the name somehow.”
“No, do you?” Bobby’s voice betrayed his interest.