The fruit consisted of grapes and those winy Breton cider-apples from Bannalec. We began with these in decorous silence.
Speed ventured a few comments on the cultivation of fruit, of which he knew nothing; neither he nor his subject was encouraged.
Presently, however, Sylvia glanced up at him with a malicious smile, saying: “I notice that you have 319 been in the foreign division of the Imperial Military Police, monsieur.”
“Why do you think so?” asked Speed, calmly.
“When you seated yourself in your chair,” said Sylvia, “you made a gesture with your left hand as though to unhook the sabre—which was not there.”
Speed laughed. “But why the police? I might have been in the cavalry, mademoiselle; for that matter, I might have been an officer in any arm of the service. They all carry swords or sabres.”
“But only the military police and the gendarmerie wear aiguilettes,” she replied. “When you bend over your plate your fingers are ever unconsciously searching for those swinging, gold-tipped cords—to keep them out of your coffee-cup, monsieur.”
The muscles in Speed’s lean, bronzed cheeks tightened; he looked at her keenly.
“Might I not have been in the gendarmerie?” he asked. “How do you know I was not?”
“Does the gendarmerie wear the sabre-tache?”