“As the grave!” I said with enthusiasm. “Truly—that is a thing well known. But Jean Ferret, then? He is not so discreet; I have suspected that you are in his confidence. At times you have even hinted as much. Can you tell me if he saw the automobile of Monsieur Ingle when it came back to the chateau after leaving here?”
“It had arrived the moment before he departed.”
“Quite SO! I understand,” said I.
“He related to me that Mademoiselle Ward had the appearance of agitation, and Madame d’Armand that of pallor, which was also the case with Monsieur Ward.”
“Therefore,” I said, “Jean Ferret ran all the way to Pere Baudry’s to learn from you the reason for this agitation and this pallor?”
“But, monsieur—”
“I retract again!” I cut him off—to save time. “What other news had he?”
There came a gleam into his small, infolded eyes, a tiny glitter reflecting the mellow candle-light, but changing it, in that reflection, to a cold and sinister point of steel. It should have warned me, but, as he paused, I repeated my question.
“Monsieur, people say everything,” he answered, frowning as if deploring what they said in some secret, particular instance. “The world is full of idle gossipers, tale-bearers, spreaders of scandal! And, though I speak with perfect respect, all the people at the chateau are not perfect in such ways.”
“Do you mean the domestics?”