"I will telephone for the car, M'sieur," but Ronnie shook his head.
"I will walk," he said. "You need not wait, François. Have I a key?"
"Yes, M'sieur," wonderingly, "it is on the chain of m'sieur."
Ronnie pulled a bunch from his pocket.
"Which is it—this?"
"Certainly, M'sieur."
"You need not wait," said Ronnie again. "I do not know when I shall be in."
"Good, M'sieur."
Well might François wonder, for Ronnie was speaking in French, the French of a man who had lived with French people. And Ronald Morelle, though he had a knowledge of that language, never spoke it, or if he did, his accent was bad and his vocabulary limited.
It was eight o'clock at night when Ronnie returned. The flat was in darkness and was chilly. He turned on the lights before he closed the door and had a difficulty in finding the switch. It took him a longer time to locate the controls of the electric stove in the fireplace. They were skilfully hidden.