“Where has Madame gone?”
“To the summer home of Countess Herzberg, who is to return with Madame.”
“Oho!” cried Maurice, in English. “A countess! What do you say to that, my Englishman?”
“She is probably old and plain. Madame desires a chaperon.”
“You forget that Madame desires nothing but those certificates. And the chaperon does not live who could keep an eye on Madame Sylvia Amerbach.”
The mention of the certificates brought back all the Englishman's discomfort, and he emptied his glass of wine not as a lover of good wine should. Soon they rose from the table. The maid ran to the door and held it open. Fitzgerald hurried through, but Maurice lingered a moment. He put his hand under the porcelain chin and looked into the china-blue eyes. Fitzgerald turned.
“What was that noise?” he asked, as Maurice shouldered him along the hall.
“What noise?”
Madame came back to the chateau at five, and dinner was announced at eight. The Countess Herzberg was young and pretty, the possessor of a beautiful mouth and a charming smile. The Colonel did the honors at the table. Maurice almost fancied himself in Vienna, the setting of the dining room was so perfect. The entire room was paneled in walnut. On the mantel over the great fireplace stood silver candlesticks with wax tapers. The candlestick in the center of the table was composed of twelve branches. The cuisine was delectable, the wines delicious. Madame and the countess were in evening dress. The Colonel was brimming with anecdote, the countess was witty, Madame was a sister to Aspasia.
Maurice, while he enjoyed this strange feast, was puzzled. It was very irregular, and the Colonel's gray hairs did not serve to alter this fact. What was the meaning of it? What lay underneath?