of Marple's Rubber Roofing. And the last touch had hardly been added when he received a telegram from Cologne, making an appointment for dinner two days later.
Many a time had Grover stepped into the rue Truffaut with the old portfolio under his arm, but never had he held it there with such pleasure in its contents. Even the wilted, dark-eyed girls in the laundry seemed to be taking hope from the new jauntiness in his step.
It was almost like having a father of your own, he was thinking, as he walked into the hotel and gave his name at the desk.
A solemn look crossed the face of the clerk, who consulted a colleague in a whisper, then came back. Would Monsieur be good enough to step into the manager's office?
The manager was even more solemn. "It pains me exceedingly to inform you, Monsieur, that M. Marple died an hour after his arrival at the hotel. We have just composed a cable to send to America. Perhaps you will be good enough to confirm the address."
For two days Grover devoted himself to his grim task. Through it all he was borne up by the thought that, in some slight measure, he was rendering Rhoda a service, the first in their long association, which no one else could so fittingly perform. It swept over him, that Rhoda's unforgettable kindness to him at the time of his own bereavement, and the kindness of her poor father, was now tacitly calling for its sequel.
