CHAPTER XIII
LOUIS, MAÎTRE D'HÔTEL
I measured out that quarter of an hour into minutes, and almost into seconds. Then I knocked at the door of the sitting-room, and was bidden enter by Felicia Delora herself. She was alone, but she was dressed for the street, and was apparently just leaving the hotel again. Her clothes were of fashionable make, and cut with the most delightful simplicity. Her toilette was that of the ideal Frenchwoman who goes out for a morning's shopping, and may possibly lunch in the Bois. She was still very pale, however, and the dark lines under her eyes seemed to speak of a sleepless night. I fancied that she welcomed me a little shyly. She dropped her veil almost at once, and she did not ask me to sit down.
"I hope that you have some news this morning of your uncle, Miss Delora?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"I have not heard—anything of importance," she answered.
"I am sorry," I said. "I am afraid that you must be getting very anxious."
She bent over the button of her glove.
"Yes," she admitted. "I am very anxious! I am very anxious indeed. I scarcely know what to do."