“It is the salon of Madame,” the ambassador admitted.
“What are the electrical appliances doing there?” the Baron demanded. “Don’t look at me like that, De Lamborne. Remember that I was here before you arrived.”
“My wife takes an electric massage every day,” Monsieur de Lamborne answered, in a hard, unnatural voice. “In what way is Monsieur le Baron concerned in my wife’s doings?”
“I think that there need be no answer to that question,” De Grost said, quietly. “It is a greater tragedy which we have to face.”
Quick as lightning, the Frenchman’s hand shot out. De Grost barely avoided the blow.
“You shall answer to me for this, sir,” De Lamborne cried. “It is the honor of my wife which you assail.”
“I maintain only,” the Baron answered, “that your safe was entered from that room. A search will prove it.”
“There will be no search there,” De Lamborne declared, fiercely. “I am the Ambassador of France, and my power under this roof is absolute. I say that you shall not cross that threshold.”
De Grost’s expression did not change. Only his hands were suddenly outstretched with a curious gesture—the four fingers were raised, the thumbs depressed. Monsieur De Lamborne collapsed.
“I submit,” he muttered. “It is you who are the master. Search where you will.”