I went out late in the evening to question each of the omnibus—­drivers, but in vain.  Whether they were too busy to give me proper attention, or too anxious to join the stir and mirth of the townspeople, they all declared they knew nothing of any Englishwoman.  As I returned dejectedly to my inn, I heard a lamentable voice, evidently English, bemoaning in doubtful French.  The omnibus from Falaise had just come in, and under the lamp in the entrance of the archway stood a lady before my hostess, who was volubly asserting that there was no room left in her house.  I hastened to the assistance of my countrywoman, and the light of the lamp falling full upon her face revealed to me who she was.

“Mrs. Foster!” I exclaimed, almost shouting her name in my astonishment.  She looked ready to faint with fatigue and dismay, and she laid her hand heavily on my arm, as if to save herself from sinking to the ground.

“Have you found her?” she asked, involuntarily.

“Not a trace of her,” I answered.

Mrs. Foster broke into an hysterical laugh, which was very quickly followed by sobs.  I had no great difficulty in persuading the landlady to find some accommodation for her, and then I retired to my own room to smoke in peace, and turn over the extraordinary meeting which had been the last incident of the day.

It required very little keenness to come to the conclusion that the Fosters had obtained their information concerning Miss Ellen Martineau, where we had got ours, from Mrs. Wilkinson.  Also that Mrs. Foster had lost no time in following up the clew, for she was only twenty-four hours behind me.  She had looked thoroughly astonished and dismayed when she saw me there; so she had had no idea that I was on the same track.  But nothing could be more convincing than this journey of hers that neither she nor Foster really believed in Olivia’s death.  That was as clear as day.  But what explanation could I give to myself of those letters, of Olivia’s above all?  Was it possible that she had caused them to be written, and sent to her husband?  I could not even admit such a question, without a sharp sense of disappointment in her.

I saw Mrs. Foster early in the morning, somewhat as a truce-bearer may meet another on neutral ground.  She was grateful to me for my interposition in her behalf the night before; and, as I knew Ellen Martineau to be safely out of the way, I was inclined to be tolerant toward her.  I assured her, upon my honor, that I had failed in discovering any trace of Olivia in Noireau, and I told her all I had learned about the bankruptcy of Monsieur Perrier, and the scattering of the school.

“But why should you undertake such a chase?” I asked; “if you and Foster are satisfied that Olivia is dead, why should you be running after Ellen Martineau?  You show me the papers which seem to prove her death, and now I find you in this remote part of Normandy, evidently in pursuit of her.  What does this mean?”