"Whose benefit was that for?" asked Rushford.
"For the benefit of a French police spy, who was trying his best to overhear our conversation."
"A police spy? Did you know him?"
"I know his class; it's impossible to mistake it. They all look alike—it's a type which even the comic opera has been unable to burlesque. You probably noticed him—all moustache, imperial, and lavender gloves."
"Oh, him? Yes, I've seen him. And I've been rather itching to apply my boot to his coat-tails. I thought he was a cheap actor—a ten, twenty, thirty, as we say in America. Do you suppose Pelletan knows him?"
"Oh, undoubtedly! He's probably boarding him for nothing. These French police have a way with them."
Rushford bit his moustache savagely and resolved to have an explanation with Monsieur Pelletan.
The car stopped.
"Here we are," he said, stepping out into the corridor. "You see our apartment is just over Lord Vernon's. I don't believe even a French detective can disturb us here," and he locked the door after them as they entered. "Besides, my daughters will be handy if we decide to call them in."
Yet, in spite of the plural pronoun, it was quite evident that he was the one who proposed to do the deciding.