I
could see that the notary was a-hungered for his roll and coffee. With
a sigh, I arose to go. The notary stepped to the door and looked up
the street.
"Ah," he said, "the train has arrived, but it seems there were not
many passengers. Here is one, though, who has finished a long
journey."
He nodded to someone who approached slowly, it seemed. He was before
the door--he passed on--it was Martigny!
"That is the man!" I cried to Mr. Royce. "That is Martigny! Ask who he
really is."
He understood on the instant, and caught the notary's arm.
"Monsieur Fingret, who is that man?"
The notary glanced at him, surprised by his vehemence.
"That," he said, "is Victor Fajolle. He is just home from America and
seems very ill, poor fellow."
"And he lives here?"
"Oh, surely; on the cliffs just above the town--the first house--you
cannot miss it--buried in a grove of trees. He married the daughter of
Madame Alix some years ago--he was from Paris."
"And his wife is living?"
"Oh, surely, she is living; she herself returned from America but
three weeks ago, together with her mother and sister. The sister, they
say, is--well----" and he finished with a significant gesture toward
his head.
I saw my companion's face turn white--I steadied myself with an
effort. I knew that, at last, the veil was to be lifted.
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