'It is impossible,' she murmured to herself, stretching out her hand for a cigarette.
There was a knock at the door. Her maid came softly in—an elderly woman in prim black, softly-shod and with the art of moving noiselessly. She carried a card in her hand, which she presented to her mistress.
'Madame,' she announced, 'this gentleman desires the favour of a word with you.'
Félanie stretched out her hand.
'You know so well, Marie,' she complained, 'that I receive here only those who need send no card. Give him my address, if it is a gentleman from the Press.'
'I thought madame would prefer to see this gentleman,' the maid said quietly.
Still with a queer reluctance, Félanie took the card into her white fingers. Before she glanced at it she knew very well what name she would find written there, and she hated the knowledge. The black letters stared up at her—
Mr. Ambrose Lavendale,
17 Sackville Street.
Félanie turned her head slowly and looked upwards at her maid. The woman's face, however, was blank.
'The gentleman is doubtless known to Mr. Wiltshaw,' the latter continued. 'He secured the entrée here without difficulty. He waits now in the passage.'