“Pretty good time,” she smiled, as she lifted the old-fashioned knocker on the big door and let it fall with a bang.
“Now, if I can’t make whoever comes understand my French, and I haven’t very high hopes, then am I lost indeed.”
But she had no time for further thought. The door opened quietly and a soft voice inquired:
“Que voulez vous, Mam’selle?”
CHAPTER XXII
THE HEART OF THE MYSTERY
Lucile regarded the speaker soberly for a moment. She was a dainty, pretty, bright-eyed little person, with a repose of manner that seemed, somehow, out of keeping with her obvious youth. Lucile had understood the softly spoken French question, but when she answered it was in the native tongue.
“I do not understand French,” she said, slowly. “I am an American.”