I had risen. “I take it you have pressing business to speak of, since amid your latest political occupations you have been at pains to seek me out. If so, I will ask you to be brief.”
“No pains at all,” he corrected affably. “I have known all the time that you were here. In fact, I expected you some while before you arrived, and sent my man, Paul, with a message.”
“A message?”
“Certainly—touching a letter from la belle Flora. You received it? The message, I mean.”
“Then it was not——”
“No, decidedly it was not Mr. Romaine, to whom”—with another glance at the letter—“I perceive that you are writing for explanations. And since you are preparing to ask how on earth I traced you to this rather unsavoury den, permit me to inform you that a—b spells ‘ab,’ and that Bow Street, when on the track of a criminal, does not neglect to open his correspondence.”
I felt my hand tremble as it gripped the top rail of my chair, but I managed to command the voice to answer, coldly enough:
“One moment, Monsieur le Vicomte, before I do myself the pleasure of pitching you out of window. You have detained me these five days in Paris, and have done so, you give me to understand, by the simple expedient of a lie. So far, so good; will you do me the favour to complete the interesting self-exposure, and inform me of your reasons?”
“With all the pleasure in life. My plans were not ready, a little detail wanting, that is all. It is now supplied.” He took a chair, seated himself at the table, and drew a folded paper from his breast-pocket. “It will be news to you perhaps, that our uncle—our lamented uncle, if you choose—is dead these three weeks.”