"You are mad!"
"Mad or not, mademoiselle, I do not leave this house—"
"Monsieur Desormes desires to see you in his study, mademoiselle."
The servant withdrew, and I turned again to her.
"And now," I cried, and my blood throbbed hotly in my veins, "now you will still say you know nothing of this theft?"
"I say nothing now," she scornfully retorted. "You shall come with me and hear what I have to say."
She walked almost unconcernedly towards the door, and then turned and faced me.
"Follow me, Madame Lerestelle," she cried, and in bitter tones added, "and follow me closely, lest a day should come when you will assert I gave my father the clew of what he should speak to you."
And, with no qualms of conscience, I followed her, and so closely that we entered Monsieur Desormes's study together.
He was what those who are foreigners to us would describe as "the typical Frenchman." Though his years must have been fifty, he looked scarcely forty, and his upright military carriage, his dark mustache waxed to dagger points, and close-cropped hair, made him appear even younger still. He was what his appearance proclaimed him, an urbane, clever, and unscrupulous diplomat. He rose and graciously bowed to me, even as though I were an expected guest.