Mlle. Desormes received me in her boudoir with a smile of welcome, and thrust down amid the cushions of her chair, only half-concealed, was that eternal book on Martinique.
"Have you seen your father to-day, mademoiselle?" I asked, quietly, after a few moments' chat upon commonplaces.
"No," she cried, with a start, and then hastily added, "Has anything happened to him?"
"Nothing," I replied, reassuringly; "but have you communicated with him to-day?"
"No," she answered. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I desire to know," I enigmatically responded, and I could not but admire the clever look of perplexity upon her face. "As you have not done so, the matter is more easily arranged."
"What matter, madame?"
"This, mademoiselle. You called at Le Quai d'Orsay this morning and brought something away with you that you ought not to have done. Now the position is simple. You will give it to me, and no more will be said. If you do not, I shall compel you."
"Compel!" she cried, with a glint of spirit in her eyes. "Compel, madame."
"Compel, mademoiselle."