“Ah, that’s a pity,” he heard Beckett-Smythe say. “She can be well wrapped up, and the weather is mild.”
He moved a little ahead of the two. Martin, determined not to be left alone with Angèle, hastened to greet his friend, Fritz. The two chauffeurs were conversing in German. Apparently, they were examining the engine of the new car.
“Martin,” murmured Angèle, “don’t bother about Fritz. He’ll snap your head off. He’s furious because he lost a map the other day.”
But Martin pressed on. No longer could Angèle deceive him—“twiddle him around her little finger,” as she would put it.
“Hello, Fritz!” he cried. “What map did you lose? Not the one I marked for you?”
Fritz turned. The new chauffeur closed the bonnet of the engine.
“No,” he said, speaking slowly, and looking at Angèle. “It was a small road map. You haf not seen it, I dink.”
“Was it made of linen, with a red cover?”
“Yez,” and the man’s face became curiously stern.