“I believe you,” said Dubois. “The devil was in that drawing.”
“Yes. Devilish feelin’. Yes. And yet it’s going to help. Because the degenerate fellow had talent. Not wholly a bad world.”
“Optimist. Be it so. But what can you make the drawing mean, then?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Reggie mumbled. “Place of child life in the career of the late Farquhar very obscure. Only trace yet discovered, the Bernals have a child. No inference justified. I’m going to Brittany. I’m goin’ to look for traces round that statue. And meanwhile - Bell has to find out if a French boat has been in to Lyncombe - you’d better set your people findin’ the Bernals - with child. Have the Webers got a child?”
“Ah, no.” Dubois laughed. “The beautiful Clotilde, she is not that type.”
“Pity. However. You might let me have a look at the Webers as I go through Paris.”
“With all my heart,” said Dubois. “You understand, my friend, you command me. I see nothing, nothing at all, but I put myself in your hand.” He made a grimace. “In fact there is nothing else to do. It is an affair for inspiration. I never had any.”
“Nor me, no,” Reggie was indignant. “My only aunt! Inspired! I am not! I believe in evidence. That’s all. You experts are so superior.” …
Next morning they sat in the salon of the Webers. It was overwhelming with the worst magnificence of the Second Empire - mirrors and gilding, marble and malachite and lapis lazuli. But the Webers, entering affectionately arm in arm, were only magnificent in their opulent proportions. Clotilde, a dark full - blown creature, had nothing more than powder on her face, no jewels but a string of pearls, and the exuberance of her shape was modified by a simple black dress. Weber’s clumsy bulk was all in black too.
They welcomed Dubois with open arms; they talked together. What had he to tell them? They had heard that the cursed Farquhar had been discovered dead in England - it was staggering; had anything been found of the jewels?
Nothing, in effect, Dubois told them. Only, Farquhar had more money than such an animal ought to have. It was a pity.
Clotilde threw up her hands. Weber scolded. Dubois regretted - but what to do? They must admit one had been quick, very quick, to trace Farquhar. They would certainly compliment his confrere from England - that produced perfunctory bows. What the English police asked - and they were right - it was could one learn anything of who had worked with Farquhar, why had he come to the apartment Weber?
The Webers were contemptuous. What use to ask such a question? One had not an acquaintance with thieves. As to why he came, why he picked out them to rob - a thief must go where there was something to steal - and they - well, one was known a little. Weber smirked at his wife, and she smiled at him.
“For sure. Everyone knows monsieur - and madame.” Dubois bowed. “But I seek something more.”
They stormed. It was not to be supposed they should know anything of such a down - at - heel.
“Oh, no. No,” said Reggie quickly. “But in the world of business” - he looked at Weber - “in the world of the theatre” - he looked at Clotilde - “the fellow might have crossed your path, what?”
That was soothing. They agreed the thing was possible. How could one tell? They chattered of the detrimentals they remembered - to no purpose.
Under plaintive looks from Reggie, Dubois broke that off with a brusque departure. When they were outside - “Well, you have met them!” Dubois shrugged. “And if they are anything which is not ordinary I did not see it.”
Reggie gazed at him with round reproachful eyes. “They were in mourning,” he moaned. “You never told me that. Were they in mourning when you saw ‘em before?”
“But yes,” Dubois frowned. “Yes, certainly. What is the matter? Did you think they had put on mourning for the animal Farquhar?”
“My dear chap! Oh, my dear chap,” Reggie sighed. “Find out why they are in mourning. Quietly, quite quietly. Good - bye. Meet you at the station.” …
The night express to Nantes and Quimper drew out of Paris. They ate a grim and taciturn dinner. They went back to the sleeping car and shut themselves in Reggie’s compartment. “Well, I have done my work,” said Dubois. “The Webers are in mourning for their nephew. A child of ten, whom Weber would have made his heir - his sister’s son.”
“A child,” Reggie murmured. “How did he die?”
“It was not in Brittany, my friend,” Dubois grinned. “Besides it is not mysterious. He died at Fontainebleau, in August, of diphtheria. They had the best doctors of Paris. There you are again. It means nothing.”
“I wonder,” Reggie mumbled. “Any news of the Bernals?”
“It appears they have passed through Touraine. If it is they, there was no child with them. Have no fear, they are watched for. One does not disappear in France.”
“You think not? Well, well. Remains the Bernal child. Not yet known to be dead. Of diphtheria or otherwise! I did a job o’ work too. Talked to old Huet at the Institut. You know - the prehistoric man. He says Farquhar’s goddess is the Woman of Sarn. Recognised her at once. She stands on about the last western hill in France. Weird sort o’ place, Huet says. And he can’t imagine why Farquhar thought of children dancin round her. The people are taught she’s of the devil.”
“But you go on to see her?” Dubois made a grimace. “The fixed idea.”
“No. Rational inference. Farquhar thought of her with children. And there’s a child dead - and another child we can’t find - belongin’ to the people linked with Farquhar, I go on.”
“To the land’s end - to the end of the world - and beyond. For your faith in yourself. My dear Fortune, you are sublime. Well, I follow you. Poor old Dubois. Sancho Panza to your Don Quixote, hein?” …
