"Do you know the address of your husband's studio, Mrs. Dampier?"
"Of course I do." The question stung her, this time past endurance. "I think I had better have a cab and drive there straight," she said stiffly. "Please forgive me for having given you so much trouble. I'll manage all right by myself now."
Every vestige of colour had receded from her face. There was a frightened, hunted expression in her blue eyes, and the Senator felt a sudden thrill of concern, of pity. What did it all mean? Why should this poor girl—she looked even younger than his daughter—pretend that she had come here accompanied, if, after all, she had not done so?
Madame Poulain was still looking at them fixedly, and there was no very pleasant expression on her face.
"Well," she said at last, "that comes of being too good-natured, Monsieur le Sénateur. I never heard of such a thing! What does mademoiselle accuse us of? Does she think we made away with her friend? She may have arrived with a man—as to that I say nothing—but I assert most positively that in that case he left her before she actually came into the Hôtel Saint Ange."
"Will you please ask her to call me a cab?" said Nancy trembling.
And he transmitted the request; adding kindly in English, "Of course I am coming with you as far as your husband's studio. I expect we shall find that Mr. Dampier went there last night. The Poulains have forgotten that he came with you: you see they are very tired and overworked just now—"
But Nancy shook her head. It was impossible that the Poulains should have forgotten Jack.
Madame Poulain went a step nearer to Senator Burton and muttered something, hurriedly. He hesitated.
"Mais si, Monsieur le Sénateur."