“A Bretonne!”
“But I don’t know any!”
I shrugged my shoulders discreetly.
“Are you certain she was a Bretonne?” he asked. His nervousness surprised me.
“Does she not say so?” I replied. 255
“I know—I know—but that message—there is only one woman who could have sent it—” He hesitated, red as a pippin.
He was so young, so manly, so unspoiled, and so red, that on an impulse I said: “Kelly, it was Mademoiselle Elven who sent you the message.”
His face expressed troubled astonishment.
“Is that her name?” he asked.
“Well—it’s one of them, anyway,” I replied, beginning to feel troubled in my turn. “See here, Kelly, it’s not my business, but you won’t mind if I speak plainly, will you? The times are queer—you understand. Everybody is suspicious; everybody is under suspicion in these days. And I want to say that the young lady who sent that curious message to you is as clever as twenty men like you and me.”