My sister repeated herself, in that dead and faintly aggressive tone in which women ask for what is very probably going to be denied them. “I wired,” she added. Liar.
I went towards the concierge’s box. He was a nice man, and had a white imperial.
“Is Mrs. Storm staying in the hotel?”
“Sir?”
“Could you tell me if Mrs. Storm is——”
“No, sir, no, sir. Not at present, sir.”
“I thought that, as her car was outside.... A yellow Hispano.”
“That is so, sir. Parfaitement. L’Hispano jaune.”
“But Mrs. Storm, you say, is not in the hotel?”
“No, sir. Not at present, sir.”