Yet it must have been my fancy
merely, for I have no recollection of the event you mention. I cannot
believe that such a birth took place at Etretat."
There was one other chance, and I gave Mr. Royce the clew.
"Monsieur Fingret," he asked, "are you acquainted with a man by the
name of Pierre Bethune?"
And again the notary shook his head.
"Or Jasper Martigny?"
"I never before heard either name, monsieur," he answered.
We sat silent a moment, in despair. Was our trip to Etretat to be of
no avail? Where was my premonition, now? If we had lost the trail thus
early in the chase, what hope was there that we should ever run down
the quarry? And how explain the fact that no record had been made of
Frances Holladay's birth? Why should her parents have wished to
conceal it? Would they not naturally have been anxious to see that it
was properly recorded?
An hour had passed; the shops were opening, and a bustle of life
reached us through the open door. People began to pass by twos and
threes.
"The first train for three days is about to arrive," said the little
notary. "You see, this is a very small town, messieurs. The arrival
of a train is an event."
Again we fell silent. Mr. Royce got out his purse and paid the fee. We
had come to an _impasse_--a closed way, we could go no farther.
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