“Where were you last evening, Jean, while Fu Moy was setting the tables in the servants’ dining-room?” McCarty asked, as though in an afterthought.
“In the kitchen assisting André. It is not my work but André is occupied with the dinner of Monsieur Orbit. I arrange first the trays for Fu Moy and he take them to the table and then call his uncle, Ching Lee. André and me, we await Hughes—”
“So Ching Lee and Fu Moy ate alone in the dining-room for awhile before Hughes came down, and you and him and André went in to have your own dinners?”
“Yes, m’sieu.” Jean had risen from his knees and now he regarded his questioner expectantly but for a moment McCarty seemed lost in thought. Then he roused himself.
“What did you have?”
“A soup of vegetables, ragout of lamb, a salad and cheese and coffee,” Jean responded. “There was rice also for Ching Lee and Fu Moy, and pastry from Monsieur Orbit’s déjeuner, which I placed for Hughes but he desired it not.”
“Did he eat as much as usual?” McCarty asked quickly.
“Like a glutton at first but he is finished very soon, he is satisfied and the remainder of his dinner goes almost untouched. Then he goes out for a walk, so he tells to André and me, in spite of the storm which is coming.” Jean’s face twisted in a grimace of knowing incredulity. “It takes him not five minutes to change and then he is gone.”
“Did you help André dish up the dinner for Mr. Orbit and his friends?”
“I assist him, but it is soon over, for when the guests are only gentlemen the menu is very simple though always of the best. At half past eight dinner is served and in an hour it is finished and we are making all clean in the kitchen. Some French papers have arrived for us in the mail but yesterday and we take them to André’s room to read; at eleven we go to bed.”