"It was but last week," the concierge went on, rearranging a stiff bouquet in exactly the manner of an embarrassed ingénue on the stage, "but only last week that I received a letter from Mademoiselle Desmond. She sent me her address."
She paused. Lady St. Craye laid the bank note on the table.
"Madame wants the address?"
"I have the address. I want to know whether you have given it to anyone else."
"No, Madame," said the concierge with simple pride, "when you have given a thing you have it not any longer."
"Well—pardon me—have you sold it?"
"For the same good reason, no, Madame."
"Take the note," said Lady St. Craye, "and tell me what you have done with the address."
"This gentleman, whom Madame did not wish to know that she had been here that night—"
"I didn't wish anyone to know!"