"But, m'sieu!" It was unheard of! It had never occurred before! "But is m'sieu not going to work this morning, and—"
"The car!"
"But, yes, m'sieu—instantly—instantly, m'sieu!" Hector stammered—and retreated hastily from the room.
Jean followed him—spent a few impatient moments kicking at the sidewalk while he waited; and then, at the wheel of his big, powerful machine, went tearing up the street. Work! It was worse than useless in the vile humour he was in. The car had been an inspiration; he would go nowhere in particular, but he would drive—fast. That was what he wanted, some excitement, some exhilaration. He would go out into the country, anywhere, with the whole day before him, and—no! He would go first to Myrna's house! Why not! He scowled heavily again. It was getting beyond endurance, that sort of thing! There had been three, no, four days of it now! The decision quite fitted in with his mood—whatever might be the result. Yes, nom d'un nom, he would go there—and at once!
It was but a short way; and, at the expiration of a few minutes, Jean stopped his car in front of the magnificent residence that Henry Bliss maintained in a style that was almost regal, jumped out, and ran up the steps.
"Mademoiselle Bliss," he said to the liveried automaton that answered his summons.
"Mademoiselle Bliss is out, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man.
"Very well, then—Monsieur Bliss," returned Jean, a little grimly.
"Monsieur Bliss is not at home, Monsieur Laparde," replied the man.
Jean bit his lip. That Henry Bliss might still be away, since he had gone to London some days before, was probably true; but that Myrna was out at ten o'clock in the morning—the man, under instructions, was lying, of course! He stood hesitant, his rage increasing, half inclined to reach out and twist the neck of this bedecked functionary—and then, with a short laugh, he swung on his heel, went down the steps again, and climbed back into the car.