night before, but, happening to buy an evening paper, I saw in it an account of the—the awful tragedy that had befallen us—” His voice broke and the tears came into his eyes. “My poor father—my poor, poor, father.”
Staring at him like one in a dream, Mrs. Renauld repeated: “So you did not sail?” And then, with a gesture of infinite weariness, she murmured as though to herself, “After all, it does not matter—now.”
“Sit down, M. Renauld, I beg of you,” said M. Hautet, indicating a chair. “My sympathy for you is profound. It must have been a terrible shock to you to learn the news as you did. However, it is most fortunate that you were prevented from sailing. I am in hopes that you may be able to give us just the information we need to clear up this mystery.”
“I am at your disposal, M. le juge. Ask me any questions you please.”
“To begin with, I understand that this journey was being undertaken at your father’s request?”
“Quite so, M. le juge. I received a telegram bidding me to proceed without delay to Buenos Ayres, and from thence via the Andes to Valparaiso and on to Santiago.”
“Ah. And the object of this journey?”
“I have no idea, M. le juge.”
“What?”
“No. See, here is the telegram.”
The magistrate took it and read it aloud.
“ ‘Proceed immediately Cherbourg embark Anzora sailing tonight Buenos Ayres. Ultimate destination Santiago. Further instructions will await you Buenos Ayres. Do not fail. Matter is of utmost importance. Renauld.’ And there had been no previous correspondence on the matter?”
Jack Renauld shook his head.
“That is the only intimation of any kind. I knew, of course, that my father, having lived so long out there, had necessarily many interests in South America. But he had never mooted any suggestion of sending me out.”
