“Not a particle, mon ami! And for once, perhaps, it is a pity.”
His sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there.
“Ah!” he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief. “The hearth-rug is crooked,” and he bent down to straighten it.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a small fragment of paper.
“In France, as in England,” he remarked, “the domestics omit to sweep under the mats!”
Bex took the fragment from him, and I came closer to examine it.
“You recognize it—eh, Hastings?”
I shook my head, puzzled—and yet that particular shade of pink paper was very familiar.
The commissary’s mental processes were quicker than mine.
“A fragment of a cheque,” he exclaimed.