He shrugged his shoulders.
'I really don't know anything more about it,' he said. 'I don't suppose any one does. Why are you so interested?'
She said nothing for a moment. The Frenchman was standing chatting amiably in the centre of the terrace, and Suzanne watched him with curious intensity. He was tall, he had a slight black moustache, his eyes were long and narrow, there was a scar on his right cheek. He was the very prototype of the man who had arisen in her mind a few hours ago, called into being by those hoarse, broken-hearted words of the ruined General.
'I must know his name,' she insisted.
He looked at her wonderingly.
'But, my dear——'
'I must know his name,' she repeated. 'Please help me. Don't ask me why.'
He rose at once.
'I'll do my best,' he promised her.
He disappeared into the house. The little party of men strolled backwards and forwards along the terrace. In about five minutes Lavendale reappeared. He smiled as he approached.