"Did you get one?"
"Yes, sir."
Celeste was saying no more than necessary.
"What was in it?"
The girl shrugged in her best Parisian. I may have been convinced that she did know what was in the return envelope. But there was clearly no way to prove it. We were forced to take her word on the matter. Doyle himself realized that handicap.
"Now, Celeste," began Doyle again, passing over that uncompleted phase, as though there was much he could have said, only refrained from doing so to go on to the next point, "what about the belladonna?"
"She used it to brighten her eyes," returned the maid, as glibly as if she had practised the reply.
"I mean—when did she use it last? Be careful. I know more than you think."
"Yesterday," she replied, in a low voice, somewhat startled at Doyle's assumption of omniscience.
"Why?"