“At a little past seven hours, perhaps half, but me, I am engage’ with the dinner of M’sieu, and Jean he cleans our dishes; we pay not much attention. Hughes says ‘good night’ and goes out the side door here into the allee which leads to the tradesmen’s entrance. That is the end of Hughes.”
With a gesture of dismissal he turned to the range and tested the heat regulator of the oven, but McCarty remained seated.
“The fire broke out in Mr. Orbit’s room after Hughes left, then?”
“Yes. You have heard of that?” André turned again with uplifted brows. “It was nothing, we do not even know of it until it is all over. Little Fu Moy, he see the smoke and the single tongue of flame and he cry for Ching Lee who puts it out. M’sieu, he is downstairs awaiting his guests and it is said that the singe—the monkey—Vite have upset the cigar lighter, but me, I think it is Fu Moy who makes play with the matches! He is a bad child, that little Fu Moy!”
“You say that Hughes has not looked so well lately,” McCarty ignored the subject of the coffee boy’s delinquencies. “Did he seem worried, like, or as if anything was on his mind that might have hurt his health, weakened his heart, maybe?”
André shrugged once more.
“He is if anything in the greater spirits and Jean and me, we think that he have win at the cards. He looks—how do you say?—dissipate’, and tired because he creeps in with the dawn.”
“Does Mr. Orbit know of this?” McCarty feigned surprise. “It’s a wonder he’d have kept him.”
“If he suspects he says nothing, because no matter how late Hughes arrive at home he is always up promptly in the morning and he drinks only when M’sieu shall not know. He is the perfect valet and M’sieu asks no more.”
“Well, we won’t either, just now.” Dennis had taken no part in the inquiry but now as McCarty spoke he signaled him an agonized glance and the latter nodded.