“It’s been no trouble,” he said awkwardly.
“I should say that it had been a good deal,” said the Girl. “Chitta is so very superstitious. Did you find it?”
“No,” said Cartaret. “At least I don’t think so.”
The Girl puckered her pretty brow.
“I mean,” explained Cartaret, coming nearer, but thankful that he had left the lamp on the floor behind him, whence its light would least reveal his soiled hands and face—“I mean that I haven’t the least idea what I was looking for.”
The Girl burst into rippling laughter.
“Not the least,” pursued the emboldened American. “You see, I left word with Refrogné—that’s the concierge—that I was dining with some friends at the Deux Colombes—that’s a café—when I went out; and I suppose she—I mean your—your maid, isn’t it?—made him understand that she—I mean your maid again—wanted me—you know, I don’t generally leave word; but this time I thought that perhaps you—I mean she—or, anyhow, I had an idea——”
He knew that he was making a fool of himself, so he was glad when she came serenely to his assistance and gallantly shifted the difficulty to her own shoulders.
“It was too bad of Chitta to take you away from your dinner.”
Chitta had slunk into the shadows, but Cartaret could descry her glaring at him.