“Let me see—­”

“Of course, it must have been early, as you were back waiting for her late in the afternoon.”

“Yes, it must have been early.  And once in the Casino!—­well, dear friend, you know as well as I do that with Madame Wolsky the money flies!  Still, let us suppose she did not lose ’er money yesterday.  In that case surely Madame Wolsky would ’ave done well to leave Lacville with ’er gains in ’er pocket-book.”

Madame Wachner was leaning back in the car, a ruminating smile on her broad, good-tempered face.

She was thoroughly enjoying the rush through the air.  It was very hot, and she disliked walking.  Her morose husband very seldom allowed her to take a cab.  He generally forced her to walk to the Casino and back.

Something of a philosopher was Madame Wachner, always accepting with eager, out-stretched hands that with which the gods provided her.

And all at once pretty Sylvia Bailey, though unobservant as happy, prosperous youth so often is, conceived the impression that her companion did not at all wish to discuss Anna’s sudden departure.  Madame Wachner had evidently been very much annoyed by Anna’s lack of civility, and surely the least Anna could have done would have been to send a message saying that it was impossible for her to come to supper at the Chalet des Muguets!

“I am quite sure Anna did not mean to be rude, dear Madame Wachner,” said Sylvia, earnestly.  “You know she may have sent you a letter or a message which miscarried.  They are rather careless people at the Pension Malfait.”

“Yes, of course, that is always possible,” said the other rather coldly.

And then, as they came within sight of the Pension Malfait, Madame Wachner suddenly placed her large, powerful, bare hand on Sylvia’s small gloved one.

“Look ’ere, my dear,” she said, familiarly, “do not worry about Madame Wolsky.  Believe me, she is not worth it.”

Sylvia looked at her amazed, and then Madame Wachner broke into French:  “She thought of nothing but play—­that is the truth!  Play, play, play!  Other times she was half asleep!”

She waited a moment, then slowly, and in English, she said, “I believe in my ’eart that she ’as gone off to Aix.  The play ’ere was not big enough for ’er.  And remember that you ’ave good friends still left in Lacville.  I do not only speak of me and of my ’usband, but also of another one.”

She laughed, if good-naturedly, then a little maliciously.

But Sylvia gave no answering smile.  She told herself that Madame Wachner, though kindly, was certainly rather vulgar, not to say coarse.  And her words about Madame Wolsky were really unkind.  Anna was not such a gambler as was Fritz Wachner.

They were now at the gate of the boarding house.

“We will, at any rate, go in and find out when Anna left, and if she said where she was going,” said Sylvia.