Joan felt that she was regaining control of herself. She dared to linger and hope rather than to yield to her primitive instinct toward flight.
"Nothing," she said with a catch in her voice—"only I—I wanted to see Miss Dean; but nobody answered the bell."
"Oh!" he said thoughtfully—"you wanted to see Miss Dean—yes!"—as though he considered this a thoroughly satisfactory explanation. "But Madame Duprat never does answer the door after twelve o'clock, you know. She says people have no right to call on us after midnight. There's a lot in that, too, you know." He wagged his head earnestly. "Really!" he concluded with animation.
His voice was pleasant, his manner sympathetic if something original. Joan found courage to enquire:
"Do you think—perhaps—she might be in?"
"Oh, she never leaves the house. At least, I've never seen her leave it. I fancy she thinks one of us might move it away if she got out of sight for a minute or so."
Puzzled, Joan persisted: "You really think Miss Dean is in?"
"Miss Dean? Oh, beg pardon! I was thinking of Madame Duprat. Ah ... Miss Dean ... now ... I infer you have urgent business with her—what?"
"Yes, very!" the girl insisted eagerly. "If I could only see her ... I must see her!"
"I'm sure she's in, then!" the man declared in accents of profound conviction. "Possibly asleep. But at home. O positively!" He inserted a key in the lock and pushed the door open. "If you don't mind coming in—out of the weather—I'll see."