"And have they no clue?" asked Marie, much interested.
"Not yet, but there must have been a cart or a cab, or some vehicle in the affair. It is clear enough that this belongs to the haute pègre, none of your common burglars would have attempted such a daring stroke; and I would lay a wager, too, that they're not so far off from here, if they're in Paris, that is. I shall keep a sharp look-out, for the reward is fabulous."
"Really!" said Madame Didier with a sigh.
"One would suppose you wanted it yourself," said Plon angrily. "Now what possible good could it do to you? It is extraordinary that people—women especially—can't be contented, but must always be wishing for what they haven't got."
"I was only thinking," Marie answered apologetically.
"Then don't think. Women should leave that to others," Having delivered which sententious maxim, M. Plon rose with some difficulty from his chair, and gazed round the room. It was a habit of his, but it always frightened Marie, and it frightened her yet more when he turned towards the recess and stood contemplating the curtains. "You keep those so tightly drawn one would—Eh! what's the matter!"
For Madame Didier, stooping over the stove, had uttered a sharp feminine shriek.
"I have burnt my finger?" she exclaimed, wringing her hand.
"That comes of thinking. Does it hurt?"
"Hurt! Of course it does."