I supposed Anastasius had gone home--I never thought of him. The
poor little man was sweet to me, just like a dog--a silent,
sympathetic dog--I spoke to him as I would to something that wouldn't
understand--all sorts of foolish things--Now and then a woman has to
empty her heart"--she shivered--her hands before her face.
"It's my fault, it's my fault."
"These things are no one's fault," I said gently. But just as I was
beginning to console her with what thumb-marked scraps of platitude I
could collect--the only philosophy after all, such is the futility of
systems, adequate to the deep issues of life--the door opened and the
manager announced that the police had arrived.
We went through the ordeal of the _proces-verbal_. Anastasius,
confronted with his victim, had no memory of what had occurred. He
shrieked and shrank and hid his face in Lola's dress. When he was forced
to speak he declared that the dead man was not Captain Vauvenarde.
Captain Vauvenarde was at the Cercle Africain. He, himself, was seeking
him.
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