“Is he the editor?”
“Yes.”
The Vicomte d'Audierne turned the Times carelessly.
“Ah!” he muttered, “the phylloxera has appeared again.”
For some time he appeared to be absorbed in this piece of news, then he spoke again.
“I knew something of a man who writes for that newspaper—the Beacon. I knew his father very well.”
“Yes.”
The Vicomte glanced at her.
“Christian Vellacott,” he said.
“We know him also,” she answered, moving towards the bell. He made a step forward as if about to offer to ring the bell for her, but she was too quick.