"Devotedly, madame."
"Then, surely, Suzanne, I should not receive this epistle. What did I do with his--ah--former notes?"
I had made a most egregious blunder. An expression of amazement came into the French maid's mobile face.
"But, madame, this is the first one, is it not? I know of no others, madame."
There was a gleam of suspicion in the girl's eyes. It was evident that, for a moment, she suspected my dear Caroline of a lack of straight-forwardness. Impulsively I tore Romeo's note into a dozen fragments.
"There, Suzanne." I cried, in a triumphant treble, "my alibi is perfect. Who wrote this note I do not know. What he had to say I do not care. If you can get word to him, girl, tell him that if he comes prowling around my balcony again I'll have--ah--Reginald pull his nose for him. A bas Romeo!"
"But, madame," murmured Suzanne, evidently pained by my flippant fickleness and fickle flippancy, "monsieur, the writer of the note, dines here to-night, you know."
"The deuce he does, girl!" I cried, impulsively, making as if to pull my beard, and bruising my spirit against new conditions. "Who are our guests? Edgerton and his wife. It can't be Edgerton. He's not a blooming idjit. Van Tromp? Dear little Van Tromp! It must be Van Tromp. Oh, Van Tromp, Van Tromp, wherefore art thou, Romeo? Van Tromp's the man, eh, Suzanne?"
Caroline's maid was red and tearful.
"Madame is so strange this morning," she complained. "It was Mr. Van Tromp's man who brought the note, madame."