“Secretary to the American Ambassador,” interrupted Miss Nelly. “I know him.”
“Major Rawson,” I continued.
“He is my uncle,” some one said.
“Mon. Rivolta.”
“Here!” exclaimed an Italian, whose face was concealed beneath a heavy black beard.
Miss Nelly burst into laughter, and exclaimed: “That gentleman can scarcely be called a blonde.”
“Very well, then,” I said, “we are forced to the conclusion that the guilty party is the last one on the list.”
“What is his name?”
“Mon. Rozaine. Does anyone know him?”
No one answered. But Miss Nelly turned to the taciturn young man, whose attentions to her had annoyed me, and said: