It was nearing midnight when the sound of Ronnie's key in the lock sent his sleepy servant into the lobby. Ronnie stood in the hall tenderly stripping his gloves. "Has anybody been?"
"No, m'sieur."
"Letters?"
"Only one, m'sieur. An account."
He opened the library door and Ronnie walked in. He switched on the light of his desk lamp and sat down. "I have not been out all the evening, François."
"No, m'sieur."
"I came home after dinner and I have not left this room, do you understand?"
"Perfectly, m'sieur."
"Have we any iodine—look for it, damn you, don't gape!"
François hurried out to inspect the contents of the bathroom locker, where were stored such first aid remedies as were kept in the flat. Ronnie looked at his hand and pulled back the cuff of his coat; three ugly red scratches ran from the wrist to the base of the middle fingers. His lips pursed angrily. "Little beast," he said. "Well?"