Doyle had been waiting impatiently for us to finish. Finally he nodded mysteriously, then stepped to the door. He opened it, and there in the hall I saw Celeste herself, with McCabe. The detective and the girl entered. Celeste stared about, not quite knowing what to make of the whole affair.
"Celeste," began Doyle, with an easy familiarity which I knew the French maid resented deeply, "you saw that man who was here and went away?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do you know him?"
"I have met the gentleman—two or three times."
"What happened on one of these occasions?"
Celeste paused. But Doyle was a forceful persuader to those who hesitated. Celeste evidently considered that she had best say something. That I knew was the danger—her readiness to say something, no matter what, to follow out some purpose in her own mind. However, knowing her attachment to Honora, I felt sure, as she went on, that what she was telling us was wrung from her by compulsion and was not said merely as so many words.
"Madame she asked me to hand him an envelope."
"And what then?"
"In return I was to get one."