She had done so, and it was produced, but to Gimblet’s disappointment contained no name beginning with the letter Q. There were, however, the names of two or three French ladies, and he wondered whether Q were merely a cipher for Gerady or Kerigoet. Blake, cross-questioned, could think of no foreign lady with whom Mrs. Vanderstein was on familiar terms.
Gimblet remembered Amélie’s thorough knowledge in the matter of her mistress’ correspondence, and called to her to come and speak to him.
“Had Mrs. Vanderstein a friend of your nationality?” he asked. “Was there any French lady whom she knew well, and whose name, perhaps, began with a Q?”
“A lady? No,” said Amélie. “A friend? Hardly! Il ne manquait plus que cela! But she was acquainted with a French woman, whose name begins with Q. Without doubt, it is of that Justine you speak.”
“Justine?”
“Eh! Yes. Justine Querterot. Madame Querterot, as she calls herself, though, for me, I never saw that she had a husband. It is said that he shot himself, the poor man, and I do not see what he could have done better with a wife like that one! Ah, monsieur, a nasty, bad woman!”
“There are people like that,” Gimblet agreed diplomatically; “but tell me, how did Mrs. Vanderstein know this Madame Querterot?”
“She came for a time to coiffer Madame, and to rejuvenate her complexion, which needed nothing of the kind, I assure you. But she had the idea to be massaged, and for some months that woman was daily in the house. Never did I comprehend how Mrs. Vanderstein could tolerate her. A woman so vulgar, so familiar, and who never ceased to talk and talk and talk!”
Amélie spoke with virtuous indignation, as one to whom the gift of silence has been vouchsafed.