Lydia took it out and made a thorough search, but she could neither see nor feel anything.
There was no sign of recent stitching.
She replaced it and one by one took out the three or four dresses that Madame Berger possessed.
There was no possibility that the notes could have been sewn up in any of them.
Her heart sank.
She was afraid that her mother-in-law had hidden the notes so well that she would never find them.
A new idea occurred to her.
People said that the best way to hide something was in a place so conspicuous that no one would think of looking there.
A work-basket, for instance, like the one Madame Berger had on a little table beside the armchair.
Somewhat despondently, with a look at her watch, for time was passing and she could not afford to stay too long, she turned the things in it over.
There was a stocking that Madame Berger had been mending, scissors, needles, various odds and ends, and reels of cotton and silk.
There was a half-finished tippet in black wool that Madame Berger was making to put over her shoulders when she came from the pavilion to the house.
Among the reels of black and white cotton Lydia was surprised to find one of yellow thread.
She wondered what her mother-in-law used that for.
Her heart gave a great leap as her eyes fell on the curtains.
The only light in the room came from the glass door, and one pair hung there; another pair served as a portiere for the door that led to the dressing-room.
Madame Berger was very proud of them, they had belonged to her father the colonel and she remembered them from her childhood.
They were very rich and heavy, with a fringed and festooned pelmet, and they were of yellow damask.
Lydia went up first to those at the window and turned back the lining.
They had been made for a higher room than that in which they now were, and since Madame Berger had not had the heart to cut them, had been turned up at the bottom.
Lydia examined the deep hem; it had been sewn by a professional sempstress and the thread was faded.
Then she looked at the curtains on each side of the door.
She gave a deep sigh.
At the corner nearest to the front wall, and so in darkness, there was a little piece about four inches long which the clean thread showed to have been recently stitched.
Lydia got the scissors out of the work-basket and quickly cut; she slipped her hand through the opening and pulled out the notes.
She put them in her dress and then it did not take her more than a few minutes to get a needle and the yellow thread and sew up the seam so that no one could tell it had been touched.
She looked round the room to see that no trace of her interference remained.
She went back to the house, upstairs into the bathroom, and tore the notes into little pieces; she threw them into the pan of the closet and pulled the plug.
Then she went downstairs again, drew back the bolt on the front door, and sat down once more to her sewing.
Her heart was beating so madly that she could hardly endure it; but she was infinitely relieved.
Now the police could come and they would find nothing.
Presently Madame Berger returned.
She came into the drawing-room and sank down on a sofa.
The effort she had made had taken it out of her and she was all in.
Her face sagged and she looked an old woman.
Lydia gave her a glance, but said nothing.
In a few minutes, with a sigh of weariness, she raised herself to her feet and went to her room.
When she came back she had taken off her smart clothes and wore felt slippers and a shabby black dress.
Notwithstanding the marcelled hair, the paint on her lips and the rouge on her face, she looked like an old charwoman.
“I’ll see about preparing dinner,” she said.
“Shall I come and help you?” asked Lydia.
“No, I prefer to be alone.”
Lydia went on working.
The silence in the little house was sinister.
It was so intense that the sound after a while of Robert inserting his latch-key in the lock had all the effect of a frightening noise.
Lydia clenched her hands to prevent herself from crying out.
He gave his little whistle as he entered the house, and Lydia, gathering herself together, went out into the passage.
He had two or three papers in his hand.
“I’ve brought you the evening papers,” he cried gaily.
“They’re full of the murder.”