“How did you know I was here?” I asked, when we were alone.
“Alex told me. I met her last night,” was her answer.
“Do you know Alex?” I asked, in some surprise.
“Slightly,” replied Zaidee. “Everybody does who ever saw her once, she looks so queer; but she is a good old woman. And then, you know, you called Chance when you were opposite our house. I saw you, and we had a great tussle with the dog—the porter and I—to keep him in. The porter fell down, and swore so hard and I laughed so that Chance got away and followed you. I did not mean to have him come with me to-night, and didn’t know he had till I heard him at the door. He is hard to manage when his master is away. He is in Moscow, and the house is like a tomb without him.”
I was conscious of a feeling of happiness in knowing that Zaidee’s black was not worn for Michel, and my next question was for Madame Seguin.
“Dead and buried,” was the response, while Zaidee tried to look sorry.
“Dead!” I repeated. “When did she die?”
“Last winter, at Monte Carlo. We went there early in November,” Zaidee said, beginning her story, and surprising me with the good language she used.
Madame had certainly taken a great deal of pains to teach her, and Zaidee had been quick to learn.
“Madame was in her usual good spirits,” she said, “and in a hurry to get to Monte Carlo. She played every night, in the same place, at the same table, and lost at first; then she began to win, and played so high that I was frightened, and tried to stop her.