"Pas le moins du monde. She was franchement canaille. Elle n'avait pas dégringolé. She had rather risen in the world. Some little grisette, perhaps; some little rat of the Opera—but jolie à croquer—tall, proud, with an air of queen!"
"You often had a chat with her, I dare say, Monsieur Louis, as she went in and out of the hotel?"
"Mais, oui. She would come into the bureau, to ask questions, to order a carriage, and would stop to put on her gloves—she had no femme de chambre—and though her clothes were handsome, she was a slovenly dresser, and wore the same gown every day, which is not the mark of a lady."
"In these casual conversations did you find out who she is, where she lives, in London or elsewhere?"
"From her conversation I would say she lives nowhere—a nomad, drifting about the world, drinking her bottle of champagne with her dinner, crunching pralines all the afternoon, smoking nine or ten cigarettes after every meal, and costing pas mal d'argent to the person who has to pay for her caprices. She talked of London, she talked of Rome, of Vienna—she knows every theatre and restaurant in Paris, but not half a dozen sentences of French."
"A free lance," said Faunce. "Now for the name of this lady and gentleman."
The name had escaped Monsieur Louis. He had to find the page in his ledger.
"Mr. and Mrs. Randall, numbers 11 and 12, first floor, from February 7th to February 25th."
Randall! The name that Miss Rodney's Duchess had told her, and which Lady Perivale had told Faunce.
"And the lady's Christian name? Can you remember that? You must have heard her pseudo-husband call her by it."