“Why didn’t you write?” I asked.
“I knew their names, Honeywood; Miss Janet was the elder, Miss Anne the younger. But the name of the place they lived at I have never been able to remember. It was near London—they used to come up by train to matinées and afternoon concerts. But what it is called, mon Dieu, I have racked my brain for it. Sacré mille tonnerres!” He leaped to his feet in his unexpected, startling way, and pounced on a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide lying on my library table. “Imbecile, pig, triple ass that I am! Why did I not think of this before? It is near London. If I look through all the stations near London on every line, I shall find it.”
“All right,” said I, “go ahead.”
I lit a cigarette and took up a novel. I had not read very far when a sudden uproar from the table caused me to turn round. Aristide danced and flourished the Bradshaw over his head.
“Chislehurst! Chislehurst! Ah, mon ami, now I am happy. Now I have found my little Jean. You will forgive me—but I must go now and embrace him.”
He held out his hand.
“Where are you off to?” I demanded.
“The Chislehurst, where else?”
“My dear fellow,” said I, rising, “do you seriously suppose that these two English maiden ladies have taken on themselves the responsibility of that foreign brat’s upbringing?”
“Mon Dieu!” said he taken aback for the moment, hypothesis having entered his head. Then, with a wide gesture, he flung the preposterous idea to the winds. “Of course. They have hearts, these English women. They have maternal instincts. They have money.” He looked at Bradshaw again, then at his watch. “I have just time to catch a train. Au revoir, mon vieux.”