A keen note came into Sir Robert Fyffe's voice. The blandness and suavity seemed to have left it.
"It struck your maid as odd?" he said sharply.
"Maids who are devoted to us are often more suspicious than we are," Peggy answered. "Don't you think so, Sir Robert?"
The big red face turned full upon her for a moment. People who watched it carefully might have discerned a slight expression of compunction. He had known this little butterfly in private life, but now professional considerations overbore everything. He was Sir Robert Fyffe because he did his job—had always done his job.
"I am afraid I am not here to say what I think," he answered quickly.
Peggy realised the situation in a moment. She was fighting desperately, but nothing gave an index to the fact.
"Oh, we all know that, Sir Robert!" she said, and there was a slight murmur and ripple of laughter through the court.
The President raised his eyes above his glasses and stared gravely round.
Silence was restored.
"Your maid's luggage," said Sir Robert, "had the good fortune to reach Paris too?"