make inquiries. But I have so few friends—hardly any one in Paris, no one outside Paris," she concluded dejectedly.
"But surely you knew Léonie's errand? You knew to whom she was going? You might have written to that person."
"I know nothing. The girl's errand was a secret from me. On her death-bed Madame Lemarque gave her granddaughter some commission. There were letters or papers of some kind, I think, which she was to take to somebody in England, and that person was expected to befriend her. The grandmother was very secret about it. She would not speak to Léonie on the subject while I was in the room, but on reëntering rather suddenly I saw some papers on the bed. I overheard a few words—something about a friend of Monsieur Georges, rich, powerful."
"And it was to this friend of Georges, the murderer, that Léonie was to appeal for protection and help?"
"Remember we are not certain that Georges was the murderer. It is only a supposition."
"But a supposition so well grounded as to be almost certainty. An adoring lover, who disappears immediately after the murder of his mistress—a lover who had good ground for jealousy, and is known to have been madly jealous, mark you; a murder that could only have been inspired by madness or by jealousy. If these facts are not strong enough to condemn Monsieur Georges, what does circumstantial evidence mean?"
"Don't talk to me about it," muttered Drubarde impatiently. "Georges was the murderer. The police were at fault in their search for him, but they were never in doubt as to his guilt."
"And it was to a friend of her daughter's murderer that Madame Lemarque sent her granddaughter?"
"What other resources had she, do you think?" exclaimed the dressmaker. "She was dying, penniless, friendless, leaving her grandchild to the mercy of strangers. She knew that Monsieur Georges was a rich man, and that any friend of Monsieur Georges was likely to be well off. I daresay she knew no more than the name of this friend."
"Did you hear the name?"
"Never. I heard her tell Léonie that the gentleman was in London. He was living at some hotel, the name of which I forget."
"Would you recognise it if you heard it?" asked Heathcote.
"Perhaps. I am not sure."
He went over the names of the principal hotels, without success. Mademoiselle Beauville could not remember to have heard any one of them.
