“It is for her own ear,” said Gimblet. “If you don’t mind, I will wait a little.”
He sat down as he spoke, and Julie, after a hesitating glance, went back to the inner room, leaving the door ajar between the two.
Gimblet, left to himself, was surprised to notice again how very few were the articles exposed for sale. Bare as the shop had looked when he first entered, he now saw it to be even emptier than he had thought. A tradesman’s almanack on one wall, a picture from an illustrated paper on the other, two or three bottles of hair-wash and a few packets of hair-pins seemed to constitute the whole stock in trade.
Gimblet was still wondering whether the massage was in as bad a way as the hairdressing side of the Querterot business, when a subdued sound coming from the next room drew his attention.
What was it, that sort of low, muffled panting?
The detective got up softly, and stole to the door.
Peeping shamelessly through the crack, he saw that a chair had been drawn up to the table and that Julie sat there with her head bent and resting on her hands. It was from her that the sound came which had caught his ear, for her whole body was shaking with the sobs which she tried in vain to stifle.
Gimblet opened the door and passed boldly through.
“I am so sorry,” he said, “to have come at a time when you are unhappy. But won’t you tell me all about it? Who knows, I may be able to help you.”