It was the one topic of conversation in the village; and the Goussot story, from being local at first, soon went the round of the press. Newspaper-reporters came from the assize-town, from Paris itself, and were rudely shown the door by Farmer Goussot.
“Each man his own house,” he said. “You mind your business. I mind mine. It’s nothing to do with anyone.”
“Still, Farmer Goussot. …”
“Go to blazes!”
And he slammed the door in their face.
Old Trainard had now been hidden within the walls of Héberville for something like four weeks. The Goussots continued their search as doggedly and confidently as ever, but with daily decreasing hope, as though they were confronted with one of those mysterious obstacles which discourage human effort. And the idea that they would never see their money again began to take root in them.
One fine morning, at about ten o’clock, a motorcar, crossing the village square at full speed, broke down and came to a dead stop.
The driver, after a careful inspection, declared that the repairs would take some little time, whereupon the owner of the car resolved to wait at the inn and lunch. He was a gentleman on the right side of forty, with close-cropped side-whiskers and a pleasant expression of face; and he soon made himself at home with the people at the inn.
Of course, they told him the story of the Goussots. He had not heard it before, as he had been abroad; but it seemed to interest him greatly. He made them give him all the details, raised objections, discussed various theories with a number of people who were eating at the same table and ended by exclaiming:
“Nonsense! It can’t be so intricate as all that. I have had some experience of this sort of thing. And, if I were on the premises. …”
“That’s easily arranged,” said the innkeeper. “I know Farmer Goussot. … He won’t object. …”
The request was soon made and granted. Old Goussot was in one of those frames of mind when we are less disposed to protest against outside interference. His wife, at any rate, was very firm:
“Let the gentleman come, if he wants to.”
The gentleman paid his bill and instructed his driver to try the car on the highroad as soon as the repairs were finished:
“I shall want an hour,” he said, “no more. Be ready in an hour’s time.”
Then he went to Farmer Goussot’s.
He did not say much at the farm. Old Goussot, hoping against hope, was lavish with information, took his visitor along the walls down to the little door opening on the fields, produced the key and gave minute details of all the searches that had been made so far.
Oddly enough, the stranger, who hardly spoke, seemed not to listen either. He merely looked, with a rather vacant gaze. When they had been round the estate, old Goussot asked, anxiously:
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Do you think you know?”
The visitor stood for a moment without answering. Then he said:
“No, nothing.”
“Why, of course not!” cried the farmer, throwing up his arms. “How should you know! It’s all hanky-panky. Shall I tell you what I think? Well, that old Trainard has been so jolly clever that he’s lying dead in his hole … and the banknotes are rotting with him. Do you hear? You can take my word for it.”
The gentleman said, very calmly:
“There’s only one thing that interests me. The tramp, all said and done, was free at night and able to feed on what he could pick up. But how about drinking?”
“Out of the question!” shouted the farmer. “Quite out of the question! There’s no water except this; and we have kept watch beside it every night.”
“It’s a spring. Where does it rise?”
“Here, where we stand.”
“Is there enough pressure to bring it into the pool of itself?”
“Yes.”
“And where does the water go when it runs out of the pool?”
“Into this pipe here, which goes under ground and carries it to the house, for use in the kitchen. So there’s no way of drinking, seeing that we were there and that the spring is twenty yards from the house.”
“Hasn’t it rained during the last four weeks?”
“Not once: I’ve told you that already.”
The stranger went to the spring and examined it. The trough was formed of a few boards of wood joined together just above the ground; and the water ran through it, slow and clear.
“The water’s not more than a foot deep, is it?” he asked.
In order to measure it, he picked up from the grass a straw which he dipped into the pool. But, as he was stooping, he suddenly broke off and looked around him.
“Oh, how funny!” he said, bursting into a peal of laughter.
“Why, what’s the matter?” spluttered old Goussot, rushing toward the pool, as though a man could have lain hidden between those narrow boards.
And Mother Goussot clasped her hands.
“What is it? Have you seen him? Where is he?”
“Neither in it nor under it,” replied the stranger, who was still laughing.
He made for the house, eagerly followed by the farmer, the old woman and the four sons. The innkeeper was there also, as were the people from the inn who had been watching the stranger’s movements. And there was a dead silence, while they waited for the extraordinary disclosure.
“It’s as I thought,” he said, with an amused expression. “The old chap had to quench his thirst somewhere; and, as there was only the spring. …”
“Oh, but look here,” growled Farmer Goussot, “we should have seen him!”
“It was at night.”
“We should have heard him … and seen him too, as we were close by.”
“So was he.”
“And he drank the water from the pool?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“From a little way off.”
“With what?”
“With this.”
And the stranger showed the straw which he had picked up:
“There, here’s the straw for the customer’s long drink. You will see, there’s more of it than usual: in fact, it is made of three straws stuck into one another. That was the first thing I noticed: those three straws fastened together.
