"I am here, Madame, to ask, not to answer, questions," he said. "Will you kindly proceed? I am greatly interested."
Madame put her hand to her throat for a moment as though to loosen her necklace. She had not the appearance of being greatly in love with her questioner.
"There came a night," she continued, "when Mademoiselle broke through her rule. A man came in and sat at her table. His name was the Vicomte D'Aubarde, and he was known to most of us, though to the young lady he appeared to be a stranger. They talked earnestly for an hour or more. When she left—he accompanied her!"
The Englishman had grown paler. Madame saw it and smiled. Her lover perhaps! It was good to make him suffer.
"Flossie here," she continued, "was outside, and saw them depart. They drove off together in the Vicomte's coupé. They were apparently on the best of terms. Since then we have not seen her again—nor the Vicomte. Monsieur knows now as much as we know."
"And how long ago is that?" Duncombe asked quietly.
"A week to-night," Madame replied.
Duncombe laid down a roll of notes upon the table.
"I wish," he said, "to prove to you that I am in earnest. I am therefore going to pay you the amount I promised, although I am perfectly well aware that the story of Madame is—false!"
"Monsieur!"