“Go on.”
“Well, our man, walking with his wife in the grounds of the Trianon close to Les Onze Arpents, took this rose from its box unseen by his companion, and carrying it very gingerly, you may be sure, by the tip of the stalk with the flower hanging downwards, was about to present it laughingly to her, when Atalanta, who was following them, out of caprice, or playfulness, or perhaps attracted by something in the scent of the flower, made a snap at it. Camus, on feeling what had happened, threw the ruined flower away behind his back into some bushes—and Atalanta paid the penalty instead of the lady.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Absolutely.”
“Can you prove it against the Count?”
“Not in the least. Or, that is to say, not effectually. I could cover him with suspicion, but that is useless.”
“How, then, do you propose to proceed?”
“Ah, my dear captain, if I were to tell you that, I would tell you what I don’t exactly know.”
“You don’t know what you are going to do?”
“Pardon me. I do, but not in an exact manner. But I will tell you this. My first move is to get into the house of Count Camus.”