She looked at it dully for a moment; then suddenly sprang to her feet and clenched her hands and stared open-mouthed. She nodded. She could not speak. Her brain swam. They had come to her about Doggie, who was dead, and they showed her Père Grigou’s packet. What was the connection between the two?
Willoughby rose impulsively. “For God’s sake, Smithers, let her down easy. She’ll be fainting all over the place in a minute.”
“If this is your property, mademoiselle,” said Smithers, laying the packet on the chenille-covered table, “you have to thank your friend Trevor for restoring it to you.”
She put up both hands to her reeling head.
“But he is dead, monsieur!”
“Not a bit of it. He’s just as much alive as you or I.”
Jeanne swayed, tried to laugh, threw herself half on a chair, half over the great cask, and broke down in a passion of tears.
The two men looked at each other uncomfortably.
“For exquisite tact,” said Willoughby, “commend me to an Intelligence officer.”
“But how the deuce was I to know?” Smithers muttered with an injured air. “My instructions were to find out the truth of a cock-and-bull story—for that’s what it seemed to come to. And a girl in billets—well—how was I to know what she was like?”