“Now, I suppose. Have you lunched?”
“Mrs. Corbin gave me some sandwiches and tea.” Pierre picked up his chamois and can of metal polish. “That car of yours, Monsieur, it is good, but it has a slapping piston.”
“Impossible!” Roberts went over to his roadster and lifted the hood. The car was a new investment and his pride. “It was the pump you heard, Pierre, and not a piston.”
“Perhaps, Monsieur,” Pierre’s shrug was characteristic. “Allow me,” and with a quick turn of his supple wrists, he fastened the hood back in place. “But when you next start your engine, listen well.”
“Thanks, I will,” Roberts started to enter his car when the chauffeur addressed him again, somewhat diffidently.
“Please, Monsieur, is Madame very ill?” he asked.
“She fears she has the flu,” replied Roberts. “But there is nothing alarming about her condition, Pierre.”
“Is she better than last night?”
“Yes.” At the servant’s persistency Roberts closed the door of his car without entering it and regarded the little chauffeur keenly. A thought struck him. There was a perceptible pause before he again spoke. “When did Doctor Nash return to Washington?”
“Monday night we got in, Monsieur.” Pierre paused to calculate on his fingers. “That is, Tuesday morning.”