I realized that Caroline had found sufficient courage to set out in quest of the cold plunge that I had advised in lieu of a cocktail. There came the sound of running water from the bathroom.
"Go on, Suzanne," I said, gently. "Get through with this hair of mine, will you? There's nothing the matter. Caroline--Reginald--ah--Mr. Stevens didn't get quite enough sleep, that's all. He's made the spray too cold."
Suzanne's hands trembled perceptibly as she resumed her task.
"There's a note for madame this morning," she said, presently, lowering her voice again, and always speaking her detestable mother-tongue.
"Of course there is," I remarked, astonished at the maid's manner. "Her--ah--my mail is full of 'em. Who's the note from, Suzanne?"
"Madame is so remote to-day!" murmured Suzanne, helplessly. "Did I not tell madame that he would write to her?"
A chill ran through my veins, but I made neither sound nor movement. Apparently my wife's maid had become a discreet postmistress, whose good offices it might behoove me to look into.
"I'll read the note later in the day, Suzanne. Are you nearly done with this infernal hair?"
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the girl, but she went no further.
A splash, a groan, followed by a hoarse yell, echoed through the suite.