‘At all events you have put me on the right track. Thank you very much, and good-bye.’
His visit had not lasted five minutes. He hailed a cab and drove to Teresa Crescenzi’s door, and asked to see her.
She also was very smartly dressed, but with less taste than the Marchesa. She was alone and was smoking a cigarette when Castiglione entered the little drawing-room of her apartment.
‘Do stay to luncheon,’ she cried, shaking hands effusively. ‘De Maurienne is coming, and there will be no one else! You know him, of course.’
‘Yes, I know de Maurienne,’ answered Castiglione, judging that the invitation was only meant to forestall any surprise on his part if the Frenchman appeared; ‘but I cannot stay to-day, thank you. I have come to you for some information, because you always know the truth about everything that happens, and when you are in a good humour you tell it.’
‘I am in a good humour,’ she laughed, and blew smoke towards him.
‘Where is that gambling den at which Montalto’s steward lost money before he decamped the other day?’
Again Teresa laughed and blew another little cloud at him.
‘Why do you ask me that?’