Burke never quite knew what impulse it was that had prompted him, as he made his farewells after the supper-party, to murmur in Madame de Varigny’s ear, “Dine with me to-morrow night.” It was as though the dark, mysterious eyes had spoken to him, compelling him to some sort of friendly overture which the shortness of his acquaintance with their owner would not normally have inspired.
It was not until the coffee and cigarette stage of the little dinner had been reached that Madame de Varigny suddenly shot her dart.
“So you come all the way up from this place, Coombe—Coombe Eavie?—to see Mees Peterson, and hey, presto! She vanish the next morning!”
Burke stared at her almost rudely. The woman’s perspicacity annoyed him.
“I came up to see my tailor,” he replied curtly.
“Mais parfaitement!” she laughed—low, melodious laughter, tinged with a frank friendliness of amusement which somehow smoothed away Burke’s annoyance at her shrewd summing up of the situation. “To see your tailor. Naturellement! But you were not sorry to encounter Mees Peterson also, hein? You enjoyed that?”
Burke’s eyes gleamed at her.
“Do you think a dog enjoys looking at the bone that’s out of reach?” he said bluntly.
“And is Mees Peterson, then, out of your reach? Me, I do not think so.”
Burke was moved to sudden candour.