“They’ve not discovered the Baronne’s body,” I heard the young Frenchman say, “and apparently no one else was burnt. I wonder if those old rumours one heard about the Baronne were really true?”
“What rumours?” his companion, a bald-headed gambler, asked. “I don’t seem to remember hearing any.”
“You mean to say you have never heard the stories that everybody knows?” the first speaker exclaimed. “My dear fellow, where do you live?”
“In Paris as a rule,” his friend answered drily. “I returned here last week.”
“Ah, pardon me, I had forgotten. Well, it has long been common talk—”
He lowered his voice and spoke into his companion’s ear. I approached as near as I dared, but I could not catch a word.
“You can’t mean it!” his friend exclaimed. “Surely it isn’t possible!”
“Everything is possible, mon cher ami,” the first speaker said. “The less possible things seem, generally the more possible they are. I shall be anxious to hear what is found inside the safe that the newspapers say has been discovered amongst the débris. If it is not claimed it will, I take it, be the duty of the police to open it.”
“But surely it will be claimed.”
“I doubt it under the circumstances. I believe the rumours to be true.”