“They have heard nothing since they found that odd letter of hers,” said Sylvia.  “You never told me about the letter, Madame Wachner?”

“Ah, that letter!  I saw it, too.  But it said nothing, absolutely nothing!” exclaimed Madame Wachner.

And Sylvia suddenly realised that in truth Anna’s letter did say nothing.

“I should have thought they would have had a telegram to-day about the luggage.”

“So would I,” said Sylvia.  And then musingly, “I should never, never have expected Anna Wolsky to go off like that.  So—­so mysteriously—­”

“Well, there, I quite disagree with you!  It is just what I should have expected her to do!” exclaimed Madame Wachner.  “She told me of that visit you both made to the soothsayer.  Perhaps she made up in her mind to follow that person’s advice.  Our friend was always a little mysterious, was she not?  Did she ever talk to you of her family, of her friends?” She looked inquisitively at her companion.

“Yes—­no,” said Sylvia, hesitating.  “I do not think poor Anna has many relations.  You see, she is a widow.  I believe her father and mother are dead.”

“Ah, that is very sad!  Then you do not know of anyone to write to about her?”

“I?” said Sylvia.  “No, of course I don’t know of anyone to write to.  How could I?  I haven’t known her very long, you know, Madame Wachner.  But we became friends almost at once.”

The motor was still stationary.  The driver turned round for orders.  Sylvia roused herself.

“Can I drive you back to the Chalet des Muguets?” she asked.  “Somehow I don’t feel inclined to take a drive in the forest now.”

“If you do not mind,” said Madame Wachner, “I should prefer to be driven to the station, for l’Ami Fritz had to go to Paris.”  She laughed ruefully.  “To fetch money, as usual!  His system did not work at all well yesterday—­poor Fritz!”

“How horrid!” said Sylvia.  “It must be very disappointing to your husband when his system goes wrong.”

“Yes, very,” answered the wife drily.  “But when one system fails—­well, then he at once sets himself to inventing another!  I lose a great deal more in the lower room playing with francs than Fritz does at baccarat playing with gold.  You see, a system has this good about it—­the player generally comes out even at the end of each month.”

“Does he, indeed?”

But Sylvia was not attending to what the other was saying.  She was still absorbed in the thought of her friend, and of the mystery of her friend’s sudden departure from Lacville.

When at last they reached the station, Madame Wachner turned and grasped Sylvia by the hand.

“We must not let you become low-spirited!” she exclaimed.  “It is a great pity your kind friend has gone away.  But doubtless you will soon be going away, too?”

And, as Sylvia made no answer, “Perhaps it would be well not to say too much concerning Madame Wolsky having left like this.  She might come back any moment, and then she would not like it if there had been a fuss made about it!  If I were you I would tell nobody—­I repeat emphatically nobody.”