“Then, perhaps you may know, she has sold or lent her car to some one?”
“That is so, sir. Madame a prêté l’Hispano. Merci, monsieur.”
“You couldn’t possibly give me any idea of Mrs. Storm’s present address?”
“Pardon, monsieur.... Timbre, monseigneur? De quinze centimes, un. Merci, monseigneur. L’automobile à huit heures moins quart? Parfaitement, monseigneur.... I have no instructions, sir. That was the gentleman to whom madame has lent her motor. Le due de Valaucourt.”
“Thank you. But Mrs. Storm, you say, is in Paris?”
“Sir? Je suis sans instructions, monsieur. Madame?”
“What is it, what is it?” asked my sister.
“Nothing,” I said. “Got a room? Good. I am going to the Westminster, and I’ll come at half-past eight, shall I, and take you out to dinner?”
“Yes, but not here. It’s crowded with minor royalties that you can’t stand with your back to any one except the orchestra. Larue?”
She had no sooner turned towards the lift than my name was cried in an agony of exultation. My sister says that my face as I started round was a face of fear.