“There was also,” he continued, “my hostess, Lady Mary Rochester.”
“A silly, fluffy little woman,” Madame declared. “Did she flirt?”
“Not with me, at any rate,” Saton answered.
“Too experienced,” Madame remarked. “Perhaps too good a judge of your sex. Who else?”
“Lady Marrabel.”
“A very beautiful woman, I have heard,” Madame remarked. “Also young, I believe. Also, I presume, a victim.”
“It is not kind of you,” Saton protested. “These women were staying in the house. One has to make oneself agreeable to them.”
“Someone else was staying in the house,” Madame continued, fixing her brilliant eyes upon his face. “Someone else, I see, died there.”
“You mean Lord Guerdon?” Saton muttered, softly.
“He died there,” she said, nodding. “Bertrand, did he—did he recognise you?”