"He said that?" Monsieur Dupont exclaimed, his anger giving place to astonishment.
"Yes, sir."
Monsieur Dupont turned away without another word, and walked slowly to the gates. Reaching them, he stopped, and looked back.
"In the name of heaven," he muttered, "what happened in that house last night?"
He went back to his car. Amazement and anxiety were blended on his face. It was plain that his calculations had received an unexpected check, the meaning of which he could not at present grasp. The sudden transformation of the house and garden was a development that had not entered into his scheme of procedure. It presented him with an entirely new and unlooked-for problem. After a moment's indecision, he took out his pocket-book, referred to an address, and gave it to his chauffeur.
During the return journey he sat with his face between his hands, buried in thought. When the car stopped before a house in Grosvenor Gardens, he lifted his head slowly and heavily, as if rousing himself from a stupor.
"Mrs. Astley-Rolfe, if you please," he said to the footman who answered his summons.
"Mrs. Astley-Rolfe is not at home, sir."
"It is most important," said Monsieur Dupont. "I wished to speak to her of a matter connected with Mr. George Copplestone."
"She went away early this morning, sir."