No greeting passed between them. Humbert gave his visitor a quick glance. Herman closed the door, and wiped out the band of his hat. The concierge poured the gravy over the meat.
“I have discovered something, something,” Herman said. “As to its value, I know nothing, or its use to us.”
“Let me judge that.” But the concierge was unmoved, by Herman’s excitement. He dealt in sensations. His daily tools were men less clever than himself, men who constantly made worthless discoveries. And it was the dinner hour. His huge body was crying for food.
“It is a matter of a letter.”
“Sit down, man, and tell it. Or do you wish me to draw the information, like bad teeth?”
“A letter from the Palace,” said Herman. And explained.
Black Humbert listened. He was skeptical, but not entirely incredulous. He knew the Court—none better. The women of the Court wrote many letters. He saw a number of them, through one of his men in the post office. There were many intrigues. After all, who could blame them? The Court was dreary enough these days, and if they chose to amuse themselves as best they could—one must make allowances.
“A liaison!” he said at last, with his mouth full. “The Countess is handsome, and bored. Annunciata is driving her to wickedness, as she drove her husband. But it is worth consideration. Even the knowledge of an intrigue is often helpful. Of what size was the letter?”
“A small envelope. I saw no more.”
The concierge reflected. “The Countess uses a gray paper with a coronet.”