“She mentioned only once. Of course she’d often heard both George and me speak of you.”
“But how did she know it was I and where I was staying?”
“Oh, that?” Her smile changed to a laugh. “Your maitre d’hotel told Ferret, a gardener at Quesnay, that you were at the inn.”
“He did!”
“Oh, but you mustn’t be angry with him; he made it quite all right.”
“How did he do that?” I asked, trying to speak calmly, though there was that in my mind which might have blanched the parchment cheek of a grand inquisitor.
“He told Ferret that you were very anxious not to have it known—”
“You call that making it all right?”
“For himself, I mean. He asked Ferret not to mention who it was that told him.”
“The rascal!” I cried. “The treacherous, brazen—”